Coping
by Nibswrites
Summary: Because the epilogue was unsatisfying and I have a lot of thoughts on what could have happened after Oban other than "we became a family again and it was nice."
1. Prologue-Homecoming

Your return to Earth is a series of meetings with so many government officials that their faces all blend together in your mind, and you are asked to tell them exactly what happened over and over until the words rushing out of your mouth feel like second nature and you aren't consciously aware of what you're saying. Finally, you're allowed to go home, and Don ( _Dad? Do you call him Dad now?_ ) gives you the guest room. You're asleep before you hit the pillow.

The next month, you float through everyday life. You have your father back; you can be a family again. You go back to school, a new school where you aren't "the orphan," or "the delinquent," because no one knows you. The next month is good, it's normal. You're finally living again.

Until month two After Oban. Month two, the nightmares start. You watch buildings and temples crumble around you; large, bird-faced figures loom over you, _chanting it's your fault, it's your fault_ ; and you watch, helplessly, repeatedly, as your best friend sacrifices himself for you. You wake up screaming, your father standing over you and shaking your shoulders.

You hope it's just a one-time thing, but the dream returns the next night, and the night after that. You try to stay awake as long as possible, finally passing out when your body can't take it, and wake up in a cold sweat, crying and begging for the voices to _shut up already, just shut up!_ Come morning, Don give you weary looks; you know he wants to help but _what can he do?_

Month three, you can't get out of bed. Don tries to get you to eat, but you won't. He gets frustrated and storms out a few times, but you can't even bring yourself to care. You watch his retreating figure with indifference. That's really how you feel about everything. Indifferent.

Don must contact someone, because you're called in to talk to some other government person, a psychologist or something. She seems to be familiar with the Race but you don't recognize her. She talks at you, you see her mouth moving, but you don't actually hear anything she says. You can't bring yourself to listen, or even care.

There's activity at the door, suddenly, and a young man in a fancy government outfit comes in and says something to the woman. She looks frustrated, and you find it in yourself to be slightly interested. The woman looks at you, and says something, and the man nods and walks back to the door, in time to nearly be hit in the face as it swings open and another, very large and thick-eyebrowed person shoulders their way aggressively into the room.

"Mrs. Wilde, please!" another man in uniform pleads. "This is in direct violation of—"

"Forget your policies!" the woman snarls. "Sending children to fight your battles is against policy too, but that didn't seem to stop you!" She turns to look at you, and her face softens. "How old are you?" she asks.

"Fifteen," you mumble, and you feel numb because you know exactly who this woman is.

"Fifteen," she repeats, and her face darkens and she whirls around to face the man she had been arguing with earlier. "Fifteen! A child! Look at her! She's not even military!"

The woman who had been talking to you stands. "Mrs. Wilde, please, you're upsetting Ms. Wei. We can talk later."

You push yourself to your feet and lurch forward unsteadily, and everyone in the room falls silent. You nearly trip over your own feet, but she catches you, and she's big and strong and warm and you suddenly understand why _he_ is who he is, and you can't bring yourself to look the mother of your best friend in the eyes as you choke out, "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Wilde pulls you into a hug and pats the back of your head softly, and you remember a sleepily mumbled I need a hug and you're crying all over again, because _he_ should be here, not you. You cling to her and sob and become a broken record of apologies, because this woman will never see her son again and it's all your fault.

"There, there, let it out, it'll be okay," she murmurs. She gently pries you away, and looks at the woman who had been trying to talk to you earlier. "Do you have paper?" Mrs. Wilde asks. The woman quickly pulls a page out of her notepad and hands it off. Mrs. Wilde scribbles something onto it and offers it to you. You scrub at your eyes and study the address and phone number. "In case you ever need anything," Mrs. Wilde places a large hand on your shoulder and offers you a smile before turning her steely gaze back to the other woman. "Don't think I'm done with you," she snarls.

Mrs. Wilde leaves, and the government lady lets you go shortly after. You think your dad might try to talk to you during the ride home, but you're too busy staring at the slip of paper in your hands to listen, afraid that if you blink it'll disappear.

Things get worse yet. Your grades slip. You lose more sleep and more weight. Your mental health is in shambles, but you refuse to go back to the shrink before, and you can't see anyone else since the Race is confidential. Month four, you snap and lock yourself in the bathroom. While your father pounds frantically on the door, you hunch over the bathroom sink. Your reflection looks haunted, guilty, and you hate it, you hate _her_. You don't want to be Eva. Angrily, you find the shears and start to hack your hair off.

You can hear your father outside the door, but you ignore him. It isn't hard; he'll tell you that you never listen anyway, so tuning him out isn't difficult. But not even you can ignore the loud _thud_ against the door. You jump and drop the shears. What the hell does your father think he's doing? He's going to get hurt, throwing his weight against the door the way he is. But no, you can hear him arguing with someone, and you frown. No, it _can't_ be. Hesitantly, you open the door and peer out. Don says something, but you look up, up, _up_ until your eyes find dark sunglasses and darker hair pulled back into a messy pony, and he smirks and says, "Well hey there, Little Mouse."

You slam the door.


	2. Chapter 1-Waking Up

Don and Rick finally manage to coax you out of the bathroom, but you make Rick leave first. Part of you wants to see him again, but under your guilt ( _it's your fault he can't race anymore, it's all your fault_ ) is rage. He _left_ you. The first person to actually pretend to care about you, and he left, like it was the easiest thing to just walk away. He wasn't even there to greet you when you finally returned. So you feel terrible, yes. But you still don't want to see him. Not now.

"Your hair looks _terrible_ , young lady," your father chides. You'll admit it looks ridiculous; you weren't really paying attention to what you were cutting, you just did. Now it's a choppy, uneven mess, even more so than it was. The only way you might be able to salvage it is if you shaved it off completely and started new. If only the rest of you was that easy.

" _And_ I'm going to have to replace that door." Don is still griping, but you aren't really listening. Your fit of rage has passed, and now you're back to your old, apathetic self. You sit at the kitchen table and trace the grain with your eyes.

"Why was he here?" you ask.

Your father starts and blinks at you. "Why was who here?"

"Rick."

Don sighs. "Because I was worried, and you listen to him. At least, you used to. I figured if anyone could get through to you, it would be him."

"Why didn't you call him sooner, then?" You feel mild agitation. If your father has been in contact with Rick this whole time, why didn't he come before?

"Things are," your father swallows, "Complicated, between us. It's best that he has his space."

"Whatever," you mumble. You push your chair back and walk towards the stairs.

"We should do something about your hair before you go back to school," your father calls after you.

"Whatever," you repeat, before pulling the door shut with a snap. You fall on your bed and fist your hands in the comforter. A month ago, you think you might cry. But now you just feel hollow.

* * *

You wake with a jolt, in a cold sweat. Another night, another nightmare. You sigh and roll over. You know you won't be able to fall back asleep, not without more shadowy figures haunting you, but you don't want to get up, either.

There's a soft knock at your door, and you pull the blankets over your head with the hope that your dad will peek in, assume you're still asleep, and leave again. You don't want to deal with him.

Instead, the floorboard just inside the doorway creaks (you've learned exactly how to step over it so it doesn't make any sound). From beyond the door, you hear your father mutter, "Just leave her alone, Rick. It's no use."

"The kid chases you half-way across the galaxy, and you're gonna give up on her, just like that?" Rick asks.

"You don't get it," Don sighs, but says nothing else.

"Hey, Miss Wei," there's a hand shaking your shoulder, and you flinch. "Easy," Rick murmurs. "Come on, Little Mouse, it's after noon. Let's get up and get some food."

"M'not hungry," you say.

"I told you," Don grumbles.

"That's because you've been subjected to Don's cooking."

"And your cooking is better?" you roll your eyes, even though you know he can't see you through the blanket.

"Fuck yeah, my cooking is better. Just ask your old man."

Don scoffs, probably at being called "old," but he begrudgingly says, "Yeah, it is."

"Come on, kiddo. Anything you want, I'll make it." You'd almost think racing legend Rick Thunderbolt was begging. But he can't be. He doesn't care. You wonder what your father offered him to do this.

"No."

"Eva," your father starts, but Rick must cut him off.

"If you change your mind, we'll be downstairs," Rick concedes, and you hear him retreat across the room. You wait a few moments after the door shuts to push the sheets back and look around. Sure enough, you're alone. You roll out of bed and shuffle across the room to crack the door open and peer down the hall. Again, no one. They really did leave you. You pull the door back shut, and then you just stare at it. You're used to your father putting up some fuss, either arguing with you a little more, or blowing up at you when you refuse to budge. This is an entirely new experience. You aren't sure what to do with yourself. You suppose this is a victory, but you don't feel anything.

Well, your next step is clear: stay in your room. If this is a game, and Rick is trying to lure you downstairs, you aren't going to give in. Your bed is much nicer anyway, it's warm and safe-ish. You don't need anything downstairs. You have plenty in your room to keep you occupied. You crawl back into bed and pull your blankets around you.

You don't know how much time passes before you hear another knock on your door, and then it opens and Rick asks you if you're awake. You remain silent, hoping he will go away, but instead he says "I've got food here if you're interested. I'll leave it on the bedside table, okay?" And then the room is quiet again, and you smell something that makes your stomach grumble.

"Traitor," you huff. You want to ignore the food, but you can't remember the last time you ate, so you push the blankets back and peer out. It just looks like eggs and toast, but your stomach rumbles and squeezes so you push yourself up and pull the plate to you. You suppose you can pick at it, at least. Or maybe it'll be really gross and you won't be able to eat it anyway.

You don't realize that you've eaten all of it until you go to stab it with your fork again and the plate makes a gross scraping noise. You blink at it in confusion. You didn't think you'd eaten that much; you guess you were pretty hungry.

Later that evening, there's another knock, but this time your father peeks in. "You're up," he says, and there's surprise written on his face that he barely manages to conceal. "Rick is making dinner, if you're interested."

You shrug. You really don't want to go down, but you are curious (anyone can make a scrambled egg, so you wonder what Rick could do with something more complicated). That being said, you really aren't that hungry, and you still don't want to give him the satisfaction. You want to win. And maybe you're the only one playing this childish game, but that just means you especially can't lose.

"Well, you can come down if you change your mind," Don mumbles before closing the door. You lay down and roll over to face the wall. You won't give in this time. Rick can stuff it.

Except in the short time the door was open, the smell of whatever Rick is making managed to make its way into your room, and your stomach lets you know exactly what it thinks of your idea. You growl and pull the blanket up over your head. You will persevere.

You win dinner, but the next morning you make the mistake of creeping downstairs to get some water and run into both Rick and your father in the kitchen. Rick has his hair tied back and is making… something. And it smells absolutely amazing.

"Hey Little Mouse, nice of you to join us," Rick waves over his shoulder. Don glances up from his newspaper and offers you a little smile.

"Unlike you," you blurt, and your father raises the newspaper again.

Rick sighs. "I know, kid, I'm sorry. I should have come with."

"You _left_ ," you hiss and ball your hands into fists. You're back on Alwas, watching him walk away with the most half-assed goodbye he could have given you (at least he _said_ goodbye, unlike a certain man who is currently trying to hide behind newsprint). And you're pissed.

"You didn't need me anymore." He still won't look away from whatever is sizzling in the pan he's watching, and you wish he would.

"What's with the men in my life thinking they know what I need better than I know myself?" you snarl, and oh yeah, Don just flinched and raised the paper a little higher. Good. You're dragging him into this whether he likes it or not.

Rick doesn't say anything, just turns off the stove and finally turns to face you. His sunglasses are still firmly in place, expression unreadable. You wish you knew what he was thinking. "I'm sorry," he says, finally.

You feel something in you snap, and you bring your fist down on the kitchen table, making your father jump nearly a foot out of his chair and slop coffee all over himself. "I am sick of people apologizing to me! It's not going to fix a damn thing! If you were _really_ sorry, _you_ wouldn't have left me in Stern," you point at Don, before redirecting your attention to Rick, "And _you_ wouldn't have left Alwas! Or you would have been there when we returned! But, hey! You weren't the first person to throw me out the first chance they got, and the way things are going, you probably won't be the last!"

"Eva," Don starts, but Rick cuts him off.

"She's right, Don."

"Is that all you have to say?" you take a step closer to him.

Rick just shrugs. "What do you want me to say, kid? We both know sorry won't cut it. What do you want from me?"

You feel yourself deflate. You want him to get angry, and maybe yell back. Don always yells back. Yelling at Rick is like yelling at a brick wall. "Why," you stammer. "Why did you leave?"

You don't think he's going to answer you, but he does eventually say, "I needed time to recover after being told I couldn't race anymore. Maybe that was selfish of me, but," the corner of his mouth lifts, "Didn't think you liked me that much."

It's like being punched in the gut, because that makes sense, but also, Rick left _because of you_. It's your fault he can't race anymore, and maybe part of him knew that and encouraged him to leave.

You ball your hands in your uneven hair. "My fault," you mutter. "It's my fault."

"What was that?" Rick inches towards you, but you jerk away, bumping into the table. Your breath is starting to come in ragged gasps, and it's been a month at least since your emotions have overcome you like this. You sink to the floor and curl in on yourself.

"My fault," you wheeze, because it's true. Everything is your fault, Rick's accident and Satis and Aikka and Jordan and your dad, you've hurt them all without even trying. You're a monster.

"Molly?" You think Rick is calling your name, but everything sounds and feels like you're under water, you're drowning, you're a monster, a monster, a _monster_ —

Your vision goes black.


	3. Chapter 2- Birds are Assholes

You wake up in your bed, pushing yourself into a seated position and rubbing your eyes. Didn't you just wake up? And you went downstairs and Rick—

You groan when you remember what happened, the arguing and the breaking down and eventually passing out, you guess. Rick must have carried you up here; you don't think your father would be able to.

When you walk downstairs, it's quiet and empty. The clock informs you that Don would have left for work an hour ago. It's a school day, but you're going to assume he called you in sick. You can live with that, though you aren't sure how you're going to pass this year with all the absences you've racked up.

Rick comes later in the day. You're sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window at a sparrow hopping around the branches of the tree you used to swing from as a kid (you have cloudy memories of your mother pushing you on the wooden plank that still hangs from a low-lying branch), wishing you had wings so you could fly away from everything like the cheery yellow bird that is chirping like everything is hunky-dory.

"Hey, Molly," Rick calls. "Is this a good time?"

"Birds are assholes," you say, instead of answering his question. "Look at that feathery bastard. He thinks he's hot shit because he can fly all over the place and no one can stop him. I hope a cat eats him."

"Never took you for an ornithologist," he takes the seat across from you and watches the bird in question. "But I guess you're right. Birds have it pretty easy."

"And then they have to go and broadcast it to everyone," you continue. "Every morning, when the sun goes up, they have to scream, 'look at me! I'm a stupid bird! And my life is just great, so fuck you!'"

You hear Rick snort. "You've got quite the mouth there, kid."

"So what?" you challenge.

"Bet your father doesn't appreciate it very much."

You roll your eyes. "Screw him, if he wanted a proper lady, he should have raised her himself."

He whistles. "Guess I can't argue with that logic."

"What are you doing here?" you finally ask. "How'd you get in here, anyway?"

"I know where Don hides the key. And I could have picked the locks, if I didn't. I wanted to talk to you," Rick answers.

"Yeah, we talked, you can go now."

He sighs. "I know I hurt you, kid. I regret leaving, I really do, but there's nothing I can do about that except be here for you now."

You continue to watch the bird as you mull over his words carefully. "At least you came back," you mutter.

"Setting the bar awful low, don't you think?"

"No one else has come back, so you being the first has to count for something. But I don't forgive you for leaving."

"You don't have to forgive me if you don't want to."

"I guess I should say the same to you."

"I don't blame you for my accident."

You pull your knees to your chest. "You should," you mumble into them.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "Why are you so intent on blaming yourself for this? Are you the one who sabotaged the star racer?"

"No, but— "

Rick cuts you off. "Then how is it your fault?"

"You don't understand," you growl. "You weren't there."

"I know I wasn't there, we've established that. Why don't you explain it to me?"

You take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself to respond, when the memory of red eyes and sharp beaks nearly knocks the wind out of you, forcing you to curl in on yourself. You hear Rick ask if you're okay, and you choke, "He _used_ me."

"Who used you?"

"Can-" Fear overtakes you as you remember the horror you felt after learning the truth (about your mother, about Rick, about _yourself_ ), the absolute powerlessness of being under his control, the shock as you realized what Jordan was about to do…

A hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality. Rick's dumb sunglasses are still covering his eyes, but you can see the concern etched on his face all the same. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready, kid."

"But he sent someone to sabotage the _Arrow_ so you would be out of the race, and he killed my mother, all so he could get to _me_ so he could _use_ me." And it almost sounds like pleading, like you're begging him to understand, and part of you wants him to get angry and walk away again because it's what you deserve, because you'll only ever hurt the people you care about and haven't you done enough damage already?

Rick sighs. "I don't really understand, but I doubt you're as guilty as you think you are."

"I'm not even a good pilot, it was all him," you whine.

"Sounds to me like someone's fucking with you," Rick says. He leans back again. "You're a kickass pilot, Molly."

"How do you know?" you challenge.

He gives you a shit-eating grin and responds, "Because you learned from the best."

You glare at him, waiting for the punch line, but he only raises an eyebrow at you as if daring you to disagree. "You're serious," you finally say.

"As a heart attack."

And you can't really help it; you giggle. Rick's expression softens a little, and if you didn't know any better, you'd almost think it was one of fatherly affection. But that's absolutely ridiculous.


	4. Chapter 3- A Hairy Situation

Rick sticks around for dinner, which surprises your father. So does you sitting at the kitchen table instead of disappearing into your room.

"We should do something about your hair before you return to school," Don reminds you, between bites of enchilada (Rick cooked, and he was totally right about his superior cooking). "And I bought a new door today, someone will be by tomorrow to put it in." He shoots Rick a look.

"You can give me as many dirty looks about the damn door as you want, Don," Rick drawls. "At least you can replace the door, and hair grows back." Your father's mouth twists but he stops complaining.

"Maybe I like my hair like this," you grumble as you push refried beans around your plate (you don't, but he doesn't need to know that).

Don huffs. "Well, you may have to go to school like that tomorrow, since most hairdressers will be closed this late and you shouldn't miss any more school unless you absolutely have to."

"Will one more day really be the end of the world?" Rick challenges.

"She's four months into the school year and has already missed several weeks of class; this habit cannot continue."

"She's right here," you snap. Don falls silent.

Rick asks, "What do you want to do, kid?"

You push your chair away from the table and head for the bathroom. After slipping past the sheet Rick helped your dad hang up for some privacy until the door is replaced, you study yourself in the mirror. Rick and Don follow you.

"It looks… bad." You assess. You weren't really paying attention, so there are spots where you cut almost completely to the scalp and others that are close to its original length. You are definitely going to need professional help to make this look decent.

"Like miss a day of school so you can get it fixed bad?" Rick presses.

"I can't go to school like this."

Don snorts. "Well maybe you should have thought about that before you cut it."

"At least I didn't abandon my kid for ten years," you shoot back, and Rick steps between you.

"So let's make an appointment for tomorrow," he looks pointedly at Don before he can say anything else.

Your father sighs. "I'll have to call into work, but I'm sure they can get on without me."

"Or I can take her," Rick suggests.

"You shouldn't be driving."

"How do you think I got here?"

Don throws his hands up in exasperation. "Okay, fine, I'll make an appointment tomorrow afternoon and you can bring her to it."

He turns on his heel and marches down the stairs. "And make it for someplace normal, not your snooty hairdresser!" Rick calls after him. You hear him grumble from the kitchen but he doesn't say anything else. You frown at yourself in the mirror and Rick gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"I've seen worse, kid."

"Really?" you snort.

"No. But I bet somebody has. I'll swing by in the morning once your dad lets me know what's up. Get some beauty rest."

"I'm gonna need it," you grumble as you follow Rick out of the bathroom.

* * *

When Rick tosses you a baseball hat the following afternoon you're a little offended at first. "You're the one who said it looked bad," he offers in way of explanation. "If you wanted to try to hide it, you can wear the hat."

"Is this your hat?" you ask, staring at it skeptically.

"Yeah, is there a problem with that?" he asks.

"It looks like something a dad would wear. Except not my dad, because somehow I ended up with the lamest dad in the galaxy. I mean, like, a normal dad."

"Are you saying I look like a dad?"

You hesitate. "Kinda?"

Rick grimaces. "I gotta step up my game."

You follow Rick out to his truck. And yes, it is a truck, with four wheels. He sees you hesitate when you see it and huffs. "Look, if you say anything bad about the truck, you're walking."

"I just would have expected you to drive something sporty and fast, not this decrepit rust bucket."

"Jesse ain't decrepit, you little thesaurus, she's retro. And also not rusty."

You snort in disbelief. "You named it?"

"We name star racers all the time, why can't I name my truck?"

You are not convinced, but you climb into the cab and buckle yourself into the passenger seat. The truck roars to life and Rick nods. "Won't get that out of an electromagnetic engine."

"It's your fault Earth is dying."

"Kid, one man and his truck is not gonna kill the planet, let me live a little." He pulls out of the driveway and takes off down the street.

Don gave Rick the address to the salon over the phone this morning, and Rick checks what he scribbled down now against the place you're sitting in front of. "They match," he confirms, and you swallow hard. "It's no Great Clips, but at least it's not your old man's personal hairdresser."

"He has one of those?" you ask.

"He did when he was my manager."

A young, well-dressed woman walks into the building while you collect yourself, so you reach for the ball cap and pull it firmly over your head. Rick doesn't say anything. You both jump out of the truck and go inside the salon.

You feel sorely out of place, but at least you have Rick, who also looks out of place but stands there like he's daring someone to call him out on it, and Lord have mercy on the unfortunate soul who tries. Thankfully, you don't have to wait very long after checking in for someone to call you back. Rick takes a seat in the waiting area and pulls out a home décor magazine as you walk away, and you kind of wish he would come with you if only you didn't have to be alone with a stranger who is going to be very close to your head with sharp objects.

"Okay, Eva, let's see what we have here," the stylist says as you sit down. She's some overly cheerful middle-aged woman, and if it weren't for her short, dark hair, she would look too much like Madam Stern. You very slowly pull the hat off your head, and she gasps.

"I tried to cut it," you mumble, embarrassed.

"I can see that." She circles you, assessing the situation, and nods resolutely. "How do you feel about a buzz cut?"

You grimace. "I think my father would murder me."

"Well," she runs her fingers through your hair, and you squeeze the armrests to keep yourself from leaping out of your skin. "I think it's long enough on the top, maybe I could just shave the sides down and even out the top. Undercuts are making a comeback, after all. And if not, well, it's hair. It'll grow back."

Undercut. Yeah, you think you could do that. Paired with the tattoos and piercings, your look will scream "punk-rock" and not "massively depressed." You nod resolutely.

* * *

Don is back from work when you get home. He takes one look at your baseball cap-clad head and crosses his arms. "Well?" he asks.

You look at Rick, who shrugs, before removing it. Don grimaces and flounders for something to say. "Well, at least it looks intentional."

You look down at your shoes. "I kinda like it," you mumble. "Maybe I'll keep it this way for a while."

Your father splutters. "You look like some punk! Is that really what you want?"

"The kid with face tattoos and piercings doesn't want to look like a punk, of course not," you snip.

"I like it, kid, it suits you," Rick says, smoothly. Your father looks like he wants to start arguing with him, but Rick keeps talking. "Besides, it's your hair, I say you can do whatever the hell you want with it. A little teenage rebellion never hurt anyone." He flips his own hair over his shoulder and gives Don a pointed look.

"You and I both know that is a false statement, but I suppose you are correct in that you can do whatever you want with your hair, Eva. At least they did a good job with it."

It's the closest to a compliment you're probably going to get from him. As he and Rick discuss dinner plans, you scurry up the stairs and lock yourself in the bathroom (you're honestly surprised Don didn't get some super fancy, hand-carved door but you guess even Mr. Moneybags has his limits). You stare at yourself in the mirror, marveling at your reflection, because for the first time in a while you're starting to feel like you maybe kind of fit in your skin. You wonder what Don would do if you picked up some dye after school tomorrow, and then decide you don't care. You won the flipping Great Race, after all. If you can beat the best racers in the galaxy, you can dye your hair whatever color you want.


	5. Chapter 4- What's in a Name

Things return to what you suppose you could call normal. You have the energy to return to school and kind of pay attention in class. Your teachers notice, and at one point, your counselor, a well-meaning but kind of nosy middle-aged man who tries to be "hip to the jive" (his words), calls you into his office and asks if something has changed to help with your performance in school. You just shrug and tell him you're adjusting.

To top it all off, you get several compliments on your hair, which you were not expecting. You did finally pick up some bleach and dye, and now that it's back to its familiar shade of red, you are feeling a lot better about yourself. Maybe it's this boost of confidence and the acceptance of your peers that encourages you to talk to more of your classmates and make some acquaintances, maybe even some friends, though you imagine it'll take a while to get to that point.

At home, you've settled into a rhythm. Rick hasn't... _moved in_ , per say, but he does spend a lot of time at your dad's place. When you get home from school, he is usually there, cleaning or cooking or digging around in the backyard ("It's called a _garden_ , Don. People grow _plants_ in them."). You're still hesitant to be around him, but he hasn't shown any anger or ill-will towards you yet, so maybe he really doesn't blame you for his accident. Which would be dumb, because it was your fault. But maybe Rick Thunderbolt is a better human being than all of you. Maybe he's something more than human.

Besides, you _miss_ him, dammit. You miss what you had going on Alwas, and you want it back, and screw it if that makes you selfish.

Winter break is soon approaching, which means your teachers have been relentless with the projects and tests lately. You push the front door open and drag your feet as you approach the table, flopping into a chair and groaning loudly. Rick sets a plate of cookies down in front of you.

"What are you, my grandmother?" you ask, plucking one off the plate and nibbling on it. They're oatmeal chocolate chip, and still warm, and you love them.

"Watch it, next time I'll put raisins in them," he warns you, with no real bite. Talking with Rick is easy, at least, easier than talking to any other adult.

You screw up your face in disgust. "You know raisins don't belong in cookies, don't even joke. This is heresy, blasphemy, sacrilege, whatever."

"Yeah, because cookies are _sacred._ " It drips with sarcasm.

"I'd worship a cookie, or any sweets. At least a cookie never let me down."

"Unless it had raisins in it," he reminds you.

"And that's why I say, sacrilege." You shove another cookie in your mouth for added emphasis.

Rick shakes his head and walks out of the kitchen. You grab a third cookie and follow, curious about what he's doing. He has… paint swatches. And he's holding them up to the wall (the sad, off-white wall that he constantly gives Don shit about). You say nothing, opting to scarf down your treat and disappear into the kitchen for more. When you reemerge, he's on the couch, reading some book with his feet propped up on the coffee table. You settle on the other side and rest your head on the arm. Today's history test drained you and also probably drop-kicked your grade down a letter (not your fault all the dates and wars run together in your head).

"What do you want to be called?" Rick asks you.

You pick your head up and blink at him. He is still staring at his book. "What do you mean?"

"Eva or Molly?"

You pause to think. Finally, you say, "I don't know."

"Do you not know, or do you just not want to think about it yet?" There are a lot of things you can't bring yourself to think about yet.

"No, I…" you huff as you search for the words you're looking for, "I just don't know. I feel like everyone expects me to be Eva, and in some ways, I _want_ to be Eva."

"But?"

"It's like, I guess… ugh," you growl. Words are hard, and so are hard-hitting questions like the ones Rick seems to enjoy asking. "Like, so Eva was happy, right? She had her mom and her dad and everything was great until _boom_ , it wasn't great anymore, and everything went to shit because her mom died and her father abandoned her. So she sat around for ten years in a shitty boarding school, waiting for him to rescue her but he never came. And after all this waiting around, she finally decides to do something about it, so she runs away and finds her dad herself, but when she does, he doesn't recognize her, so she has a choice. She can either tell him who she really is, and maybe he's ecstatic that she's back, or maybe he isn't, but either way it's already awkward. Or she can lie and become someone else with the hope that he eventually figures it out, or he comes to love this new person as a daughter, and then maybe it doesn't matter if she's Eva or not, because she gets her father back in the end anyway even if he doesn't know who she really is.

"So then Molly is born, and she fights to get to Alwas, and she fights to be the pilot for the Earth team, and she fights to win these races and win some _respect_ from her asshole father who has no idea who she really is." You're pacing the length of the living room, Rick, having finally put his book down, watching you carefully from the couch. "But she also makes friends and builds her own family and makes a place for herself in the world, she's not just sitting idle and waiting for someone else to change everything for her. Molly has to claw her way up from the bottom and she has to fight for everything she has and everything she wants to have, and when it's all said and done, when she finally wins the race and gets her father back but loses everything else, she's just supposed to go back to being Eva, like it never happened? Like Molly never existed, like she never mattered?"

You stop, staring down at your stocking-clad feet and balling your fists. "Molly accomplished so much, she did something for herself and she fought hard for it, but in the end she didn't really succeed, and now I feel like everyone just wants me to forget Molly. But I can't just forget Molly. I can't just forget Eva, either. They're both me, and going by one name feels like I'm leaving the other behind, like I'm closing the door on that part of my life. It's like, I have to choose between the little kid who lost everything and the angry teenager who fought to get it back. How can you choose between that? How do you decide?"

"But you can't let people decide for you," Rick mumbles.

You stomp your foot. " _Exactly!_ I hate it every time Dad calls me Eva, because it feels like he's trying to forget the past ten years ever happened, and he never left me behind and everything is fine. And maybe that's just his guilt. He's angry at himself for what he did and he can't bring himself to face it yet, so it's better to just shove it all down in the deep-dark where you don't have to confront it, not yet, and you can pretend you aren't some broken, hollow shell of yourself." And maybe you're projecting a little now. You stop to catch your breath, and when you continue, your voice is soft, hesitant. "I wish it could be that easy. Sometimes I wish I could forget Molly, and forget everything she went through. But I know if I could go back and do it all again, I would. In a heartbeat. Maybe I'd change some things, but not Molly." You laugh. "God, I must sound crazy, like Jekyll and Hyde. Maybe I need more help than I thought."

Rick shifts, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. "No, that makes sense. Doesn't answer my question, but I guess I should have known it would be more complicated, since nothing about this situation is uncomplicated. Have you told Don any of this?"

You return to the sofa and drop down next to Rick with a sigh. "Do you think I've told Don? It's too complicated and I don't think he would understand. Plus, there's the whole, you know," you gesture vaguely, and Rick just raises an eyebrow at you. You huff. "Like, Eva is the name my parents gave me. It's the name my _mom_ gave me. And now that she's gone, well…" you trail off and shift uncomfortably in your seat. That's a whole other can of worms you don't want to open right now."It's kind of like, a connection to her I guess. Like, names are the first gifts you're given, right? You pop out and your parents give you a name, and that's who you are, and some people change those names for any number of reasons, but I feel like if I just abandoned Eva altogether, I would be throwing that away. I would be throwing one of the last connections I have to her away. Or something," you add hastily, because Rick is just kind of looking at you and since you can't see his eyes, you aren't quite sure if his expression is supposed to be judgmental or not.

"It sounds like you've thought about this," is all he says. You aren't really sure what that means, so you just shrug.

"I guess so, yeah. I mean, it's still a mess. I wish it was easy. I wish my life could be easy, but someone has to struggle so others can feel fortunate." Silence falls between you, but it doesn't feel as strained as it has since the race. "Maybe you can call me Molly. I don't think Don will call me Molly and I think he'd have a crisis if I asked him to. But if I don't like it, I'll tell you, and you can call me Eva instead. Or maybe I'll come up with a new name, and start over again, and make a new self that never got left behind and didn't have to fight for everything she has. Someone normal. Maybe Norma, although I don't think I'm much of a Norma."

That draws a laugh out of your mentor, and you smile a little. "Alright, Molly, but you gotta let me know if you don't like it," he says firmly.

You nod, and he gets up and stretches. "I should probably head on home. Can't let Don think I'm a freeloader."

You roll your eyes. "It's not like you don't do anything around here."

He ruffles your hair. "Yeah, well, you know how he is." Boy, do you.

You walk with him to the door, and before he leaves, you hesitantly wrap your arms around his middle and bury your face in his side. You feel him stiffen before a hand settles between your shoulder blades. "Thanks, Rick," you mumble.

"No problem, Molly." He gives you a crooked grin and a salute before you let him pull his jacket on and slip out the door. As you watch him drive away in his truck, you feel oddly at peace, not because you don't think you should, but because it's the first time in a long time you have.


	6. Chapter 5- All I Want for Christmas

**AN:** BOOM BABEY I'M BACK! It has been exactly a year since I updated. Whoops.

Anyway. I started writing this chapter back in December, so it's a holiday celebration chapter! I know it's almost September! But I feel terrible about how long it's taken me to update that I'm not okay with waiting until the holidays finally roll around again! More notes at the end! That's a lot of exclamation points!

EDIT: CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS TERRIBLE SITE WON'T LET ME POST THE FULL CHAPTER NAME BECAUSE IT'S "TOO LONG?"

* * *

Chapter 5: "All I Want for Christmas is a Functional Family"

You make it to winter break. Around this time at Stern, your classmates would disappear into their parents' vehicles, leaving you waiting on the front steps of the boarding school for a father who would never show. By the time you were eight, you'd realized he wouldn't be coming. But you always waited on the off chance he would.

So this is the first time in about 10 years that you're with what's left of your family for any holiday (you remembered belatedly that Thanksgiving is a thing, but when you mentioned it to Rick, he just snorted and made some comment about having no desire to celebrate cultural genocide. You should have figured that Rick would be opposed to Thanksgiving on principle). You're kind of nervous, but also excited. Your memories of Christmas are limited to your mother helping you put the star on the top of the tree, and your father dancing around the house in a Santa hat. You wonder what it would take to get Rick in a Santa hat.

The first day of your break, you walk down to the living room, that sad, off-white space that looks so sterile and clinical that it would look more at home in a hospital, and you hate it, because hospitals are never good. You cross your arms with a huff. You know Rick is going to be here soon (because he always shows up, eventually); maybe if you ask really nicely he'll take you out to get some decorations. And also make you breakfast.

You had long given up on the idea of Rick making you breakfast by the time he arrives, and you're about to shove _another_ Pop Tart in your mouth when he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place (he might as well) and gives you a look through his sunglasses that oozes disapproval. "What are you eating." It's not a question.

Your eyes flick to the box still sitting open on the counter. "It's got strawberries in it."

"That's hardly a healthy breakfast."

This is the new thing you've been fighting over, whether or not things are "healthy breakfasts," and how important is it, _really_ , if the first thing in your body is more sugar than anything else. "Fight me," you fire back, because he's _right_ , but you don't _care_. You wanted a Pop Tart, dammit.

"I have better things to do," he replies.

"Oh yeah?" you challenge.

"You want a real breakfast or not?"

Well, you aren't going to argue with that one. Though, glancing at the clock, it's closer to lunch than not. You tell him as much. "Brunch, then," he amends.

He makes the two of you burritos with eggs, ham, cheese, and bell peppers, and while you complain about the presence of vegetables, you stop as soon as he sets the plate in front of you, and despite gorging yourself on pastries with fake strawberry filling, you scarf down everything. You can't tell if he's watching you behind those dumb sunglasses until he shakes his head in disbelief when you push your plate away.

"I'm a growing girl," you stick your tongue out at him.

"Up or out?" he teases, but the dirty look you throw him makes him laugh and apologize.

When he finishes his own food, you finally broach the topic of going shopping. "We don't have any Christmas decorations," you say.

"That does appear to be the case," he agrees.

"I want to go get some."

He leans back in his chair and props his feet on the table. "Like what?"

You roll your eyes. "I don't know, Christmas-y decorations? Like, don't people usually get trees and shit?"

"Decorating your house with shit would be an odd choice."

"You know what I mean," you growl, and he chuckles. "Don is boring and won't do it, and I haven't had a proper Christmas in 10 years."

That sobers him up, and he just nods. "Alright, we can go get a tree. But I have a request."

"What's that?"

"Don comes with."

And that's how you find yourself pouting in the back of Rick's pick-up with Don and Rick arguing in the front seat and a tree in the bed. It took way longer than it should have, wandering around the tree farm, to find one that was good enough for Don's impractical standards, and by the time you finally did, you were ready to go home.

"It's so cold," Don complains.

"It's 50 degrees," Rick counters.

Don glares at him. "It's 48!"

"So are you," you grumble. "Old fart."

"I am _not_ old!" Don turns on you, and then Rick when the other man fails to hold back his laughter. "She gets this from you!"

"I think she was already like this before I came into the picture, Don. Besides, if I remember correctly, you've got quite a propensity for sass, yourself."

Your father crosses his arms and grumbles to himself while Rick shakes his head. "What's that look for?" Don demands.

"Fuckin' Weis."

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the console. "But you like me."

"I like _both_ of you, however the hell _that_ came to happen." After a beat of silence, Rick adds, "Or maybe I just realized that neither of you can take care of yourselves and took it upon myself to do it for you."

"Surely we would perish without your goodwill," Don grumbles, and you can hear the eye rolling in his tone.

"What did I tell you? She comes by it honestly."

After setting up the tree, you and Rick follow Don up to the attic, where he claims the old decorations are stored. You're filled with apprehension; you've never been in the attic before, but judging by the way Don is nervously fiddling with the key, you're certain there's a lot to unpack in there, physically and emotionally. You aren't sure that you're ready for that, yet.

"Alright, I'm pretty sure they're to the left," Don mutters, after pushing the trap door open ("It's not a trap door," he corrects you when you call it that, but he doesn't give you anything _else_ to call it so that's what it is.) He and Rick walk in that direction, but you stop and look around at your surroundings. A trophy catches your eye, so after making sure that you aren't being watched, you sneak over to investigate.

There's a layer of dust on everything, and it makes you sneeze violently when you pull the sheet thrown hurriedly over the collection of photographs and awards. You knew they'd be your mother's, so at this point you're really just asking for the emotional sucker-punch this is sure to get you, but your curiosity is overwhelming. You throw another nervous glance over your shoulder to make sure you're still relatively alone and start digging through the memorabilia, pausing when you find a picture of your mother in her racing helmet and holding an infant, most likely you, judging by the shock of dark brown hair and big brown eyes that look startled over the kiss pressed against a round cheek. You haven't seen any baby pictures of yourself. You carefully tuck the picture into the back pocket of your jeans and keep digging.

"Eva?" you father's nervous voice interrupts your search, and you jerk back quickly, nearly crashing into a stack of boxes and knocking them over. You scramble to catch them before they can tumble to the floor and sigh in relief.

"I'm coming!" you call. You replace the sheet and scurry over before he catches you going through things you probably aren't supposed to be going through. He and Rick are picking up some boxes with "X-MAS" written in thick black marker on the side.

"Can you grab that box?" Don points to it with his toe. "It might be kind of heavy, so be careful."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." It is a little heavier than you expected, but not impossible, so you follow them back down to the living room.

Going through all the decorations is more of a pain in the ass than a painful walk down memory lane. The lights and strands of tinsel are all tangled up in each other, and you debate just buying new ones until Rick plugs all the lights in to find out if they all still work and sure enough, they do. So after a couple hours filled with arguing and cursing, you finally untangle the lights and get them on the tree.

You hold up the tinsel. "Are we going to untangle this?"

"No." Don and Rick's unanimous and synchronized response makes them glare at each other, but you sigh in relief. You really didn't want to go through everything you just did again.

The ornaments are a little different. There are some homemade ones scattered throughout the box, and when you pull them out, your father takes each one and stares at them, nostalgia and hurt warring in his eyes until he forces himself to put them down. You want to know the stories behind them, but you're too afraid to dredge up uncomfortable memories so you don't. Until you find something that looks like a cat threw up and someone covered it in pink glitter.

"What the heck is this?" you hold it up for your father to examine.

He smiles fondly, "You made that. You were, I don't know, three?"

"What is it supposed to be?"

"A rabbit, I believe."

You squint at it. "Had I ever seen a rabbit?"

That makes Don laugh. "Yes! You loved rabbits. That Christmas, you begged for one as a pet. Your mother—" he swallows, then pushes on, "Your mother and I finally managed to talk you out of it, but we did get you a stuffed one, instead."

"A pink one," you nod. "I remember it. Not getting it, but having it. I wonder where it went."

"Is that where you drew your inspiration from when you painted the _Arrow_?" Rick asks. A smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laugh. "Yeah, I guess so. Some things don't change, apparently." You look at the ornament in your hand. "This thing is still hideous, though. Do you want to keep it?"

"Not really," Don mutters.

"I think you should," Rick reaches out for it, and hangs it on a branch. "As a memory of that one time you two had a nice conversation that didn't end in someone yelling."

"We've had plenty of conversations that didn't end in yelling!" Don, well, _yells_.

Rick just raises an eyebrow, and you snort. "Even if it's true, you don't have to say it," you protest. "Now you've just gone and ruined it."

"How about I make it up to you and make you dinner?"

"Like you weren't going to do that anyway," you roll your eyes.

Rick does finally grin. "You got me, Mouse."

* * *

The next morning, you roll out of bed and stalk to the bathroom. Your hair is an absolute mess; even if it's getting rather shaggy, your hair is still short enough to stand up in strange formations while you sleep. You manage to coax it into something less frightening and contemplate what you'll eat for breakfast while you pad over to the staircase. The sound of Rick and Don arguing makes you stop in your tracks.

"What am I _supposed_ to get her?" Don hisses. They must be trying to keep their voices down so they don't wake you up (even if the nightmares have mostly stopped, you're still a very light sleeper).

"Not something that costs half a year's salary that she won't even use," Rick snaps. "How do you think she's going to react to that? She's going to see it as an attempt to 'buy' her affection, and you know it."

They're arguing about you, then. You carefully position yourself so that you can see them where they're standing in the kitchen. Your father appears to be cooking for once; maybe he started before Rick got here.

"That doesn't answer my original question!"

Rick pulls his sunglasses off and rubs at his eyes. You feel your own widen, and try to crane your neck in an attempt to see Rick's face, but his back is still stubbornly towards you when he replaces the shades. You feel your features slip into a pout.

"Have you asked her?" Rick deadpans. Don shifts nervously, and Rick swears. "You are _impossible_."

"What am I supposed to do, just, just, ask her?" your father splutters. Rick must give him a look, because Don drags his hands down his face.

"She's a kid, Don, just talk to her. She's not gonna grow a second head and spit fire at you or whatever the hell you're afraid of happening."

"But she's…" you can't hear what Don mumbles, and you huff.

Rick shifts his weight and pops his hip. You recognize that stance, that's the "Rick Thunderbolt is about to school someone" stance.

"And if you want my opinion, she has every right to be. You did abandon her. And you can't change that."

"Gee, thanks, very inspirational, Rick."

"You _can_ , however, try to make up for lost time _now_. Yeah, she's angry and closed off. That's most teenagers on a _good_ day. Molly's a good kid, Don, but she's dealing with a lot of hurt, some of which _you_ caused. All you can do is let her know that you want to try to make things better, make an effort to be there for her, and if she tells you to back off, you listen."

Don crosses his arms and sighs. After a moment of silence, he says, "I suppose you would know. She likes you."

"Because I've put in the effort to get to know her. But I've hurt her too. How do you think I felt when she blew up at me?"

Ah, yes, _that_ happened. You hoped he'd forgotten, but you suppose that's not the kind of thing people really forget.

"And she blamed _herself_ , Don. She thinks it's her fault that I left. How do you think that made me feel? So yeah, I can kind of relate to what you're dealing with, but ignoring the problem isn't going to make it go away. And maybe you can't fix this, and maybe she doesn't want anything to do with you, but at least you can say you _tried_."

You quietly creep away from the staircase and slip back into your room.

The soft knock on your door breaks you out of your thoughts, and you glance at the clock on your bedside table. A couple of hours have passed already, meaning you were up here a lot longer than you meant to be. "It's open," you call, returning your focus to the sketchbook in your lap.

"So you are awake," your father says, pushing the door open. "Aren't you hungry?"

You shrug. "Not really."

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Not really."

You feel him settle on the edge of your bed. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

He sighs. "Eva, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

You tap your pencil against your bottom lip and look down at the messy outline of a new rocket seat before you ask, "How much is half a year's salary?"

Don is quiet for a moment, before asking, "You heard that, then?" When you nod, he sighs again. "Rick has the tendency to exaggerate, but he ... had some good points. What would you like for Christmas?"

"Nothing you can get me," you grumble.

"Not if you're going to be dramatic about it."

You bristle. "I'm not _dramatic_."

"Then what would you like for Christmas?"

You set the sketchbook aside and draw your knees up to your chest. You wrap your arms around your legs and rest your chin on your knees and sigh. "I want to be a family again. Ever since we got back, it feels like we're just stepping on eggshells around each other. I don't feel like I can talk to you about anything, but you're always working anyway so I don't even have time to. And when we do talk, I feel like you don't really listen to me, so then I get frustrated, and then you get frustrated, and we start yelling at each other, and then I don't want to talk to you again because I don't want to argue with you."

Don doesn't say anything, and you expect him to get angry and storm out of the room, but he surprises you by taking a deep breath and saying, "You're right. I've been… avoiding you. I'm just so worried that I can't ever make things right between us that I don't even know where to begin." He rests his head in his hands and groans. "Your mother would know what to do. She always knew what to do, and I just followed after her blindly. She should be here, not me." He looks at you then, and he looks so much older than he really is. "But she's not here," he continues. "And I'm your father, and I need to do better." With that, he stands and walks out of your room with the stride of a race manager, and not the disheveled, sad little man he is.

You're helping Rick clean up from lunch when your father finally emerges from his office. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, clasps his hands behind his back, and announces, "I've taken the rest of this week off so we can spend time together."

You drop the knife you were drying, and then leap back so it doesn't wind up in your foot. It clatters harmlessly to the tiles. "You did _what_?"

"You feelin' okay, Don?" Rick asks, looking the man up and down. "I can't think of the last time you took time off from work."

"Yes, well," he clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. "It is the holidays. I figured everyone could use the time off to be with their families."

"Everyone being?" Rick prompts. Don tugs nervously at the collar of his shirt, and Rick whistles through his teeth. "You gave everyone at Wei Race the holidays off. Did anyone ask to verify your identity?"

"Don Wei, infamous hardass, giving all his employees time off? You must be ill," you gibe.

He flaps his jaw before spluttering, "I may be a hardass, but I'm not _heartless_!"

"There he is," Rick drawls. "Welcome back, Don."

Your father grumbles and stomps over to the coffee pot to pour himself a cup. You snort when it occurs to you that maybe _that's_ why he's so bitter.

"So, what are you gonna do with your time off?" Rick asks.

"Ah, yes, well, I thought maybe Molly would like to decide?"

You set the plate Rick just handed you down so you don't drop it. "Is this about this morning?" you demand.

Don looks offended by your outburst. "You said you wanted to be a family again. Isn't this what families do?"

"Well I wouldn't know, _Don_ , I've never had one!" you snarl.

"Enough," Rick warns you.

"But—!"

"I said _enough_." Rick's voice takes on a sharp, forceful edge that makes you flinch despite yourself. He takes a deep breath and rubs the bridge of his nose before mumbling an apology and adding, "He's offering you an olive branch, kid. I'd take it, if I were you."

You glare at your father, who is looking between you and Rick almost _hopefully,_ and you feel the fight bleed out of you. "Fine," you grumble. "Sorry I snapped at you."

He looks relieved. He sits and drinks his coffee while you and Rick finish washing the dishes. As you put the last few away, you say, "We should make Christmas cookies."

"We might have to go shopping since I don't think there's a lot of baking supplies here, but we can do that," Don replies.

You nod. "Then it's settled. I want to make cookies."

A trip to the grocery store that winds up being way longer than it should have because your father and Rick kept arguing over brands while you sat in the basket of the cart and sighed a whole lot in irritation later, the three of you begin to make cookies. The first batch of sugar cookies goes smoothly, and while you're mixing the next batch while those cook, you glance up at your father, who is rolling the dough into little balls and putting them on a baking sheet, and your mischievous streak flares.

"Want any help with that?" you ask sweetly.

"Oh, sure, thank you, Eva."

You grab a handful of dough and start rolling it, but instead of setting it on the pan, you throw it at your father's chest. It hits the front of his apron (that you and Rick definitely gave him shit for wearing) and then falls to the floor, landing with a satisfying _splat_.

Don's head snaps up and he glares at you. "What was that for?"

Instead of answering, you throw another one at him. This one hits his shoulder.

"Why you little—" he throws the dough he was rolling at you, and you flinch and screech. It bounces off your forearm and joins the others on the floor.

"Will you two quit wasting all that?" Rick asks.

You and your father look at each other, and then a smirk settles on Don's face as he snatches some dough off the cookie sheet and hurls it at Rick. It narrowly misses him and hits the wall instead.

"Alright, you asked for it," Rick growls, picking the dough off the floor. You squeal with laughter and duck behind the counter before he can throw it.

"Don't dish what you can't take, Molly!" Rick calls, his voice above you. You look up from where you're crouched on the floor, and realize Rick is holding a measuring cup over your head before he upends its contents on you. You cough and splutter as the flour gets in your nose and mouth.

You leap to your feet. "This is war!" you cry. You grab the bag of sugar off the counter and run at Rick, fully intending to pour the whole thing out on him. Just then, the oven beeps.

"Okay, enough, let me get the cookies out," Don says. He's laughing and clutching at his sides.

"We've probably wasted enough food, too," Rick adds, pulling the sugar from between your fingers and holding it up over his head.

You jump a couple of times in an effort to reach it, but he's too tall and you give up with a grunt. "I'll have my vengeance," you threaten, and then wrap your arms around him and wipe your flour-covered face all over his black shirt.

"Dammit, kid, I don't have another clean shirt here," he huffs.

You grin up at him. "Don't dish what you can't take!"

He grumbles, but ruffles your hair playfully before pulling away as Don places the just-baked cookies on a cooling rack.

"Can I try one?" you ask. You skip over towards the oven and snatch up a cookie. You yelp at how hot it is, but stuff it your mouth.

Don swats at your hands as you reach for another one. "You're going to burn yourself!" he snaps.

"How'd they turn out, Molly?" Rick asks.

"Needs sprinkles or icing," you say.

"Let's finish the rest of the cookies while we wait for them to cool, then we can make icing," Rick suggests.

Which is exactly what you do. You insisted on making _all_ the cookies, and by the time you're done, there isn't a surface in the kitchen that isn't covered in baked goods. As the three of you stand back and survey your handiwork, Don scratches his chin and mumbles, "We may have gotten a little carried away."

"Isn't that just the _Wei_ you operate?" Rick nudges you, and you can't help but snort a laugh. Don only groans. "Besides," Rick adds. "It's the holidays. A little extra sugar won't kill anyone. What do you think, Mouse?"

You hum thoughtfully before replying, "I think that I don't want to decorate all of these right now."

"I second that," Don says. "I think I've done enough baking today."

"We can do it tomorrow, then," you suggest.

"Anything else you want to do tomorrow?" Rick asks.

You grin at him. "What would I have to do to convince you to put on a Santa hat?"

He sighs heavily, "Maybe if you ask really nicely, I'll wear one on Christmas day."

"It can be your present to me."

"Maybe."

* * *

Rick does wear a Santa hat on Christmas day, kicking down your door with a bag thrown over his shoulder and "ho, ho, ho-ing" so loudly you fall out of bed. You rub the sleep from your eyes and glare at him, but he only grins and says, "Up and at 'em, Little Mouse, or no presents for you."

After that, you tear down the stairs. You father is sitting at the table, drinking coffee and wearing an absolutely hideous sweater with blinking lights on it. When you give him a funny look, he says, "There's one for you too, if you want it," and points to a folded up bundle of yarn at your usual spot at the table. You unfold it to reveal a little kitten playing with a ball of yarn between the words "Meow-y Christmas."

"Oh, this is terrible," you groan.

"Come on, Molly, put it on, embrace the holiday cheer," Rick calls from the living room. "I fucking _jingle_ , for God's sake."

You peer around the doorway, and sure enough, Rick's sweater is host to a small horde of elves, each with a little bell attached to their stocking caps. Rick pulls the garment out away from his body and gives it a shake to demonstrate.

"Horrendous," you remark. "I love it."

Don appears at your elbow. "Go get dressed, then we can eat breakfast and open gifts."

"I told you I didn't want anything," you glare at him.

"It's just a couple of small things, and Rick… provided assistance."

Rick scoffs. "You could say that."

You look between the two of them suspiciously, but finally concede and disappear back up the stairs to change.

After breakfast is cleaned up, you all gather around the tree. Don and Rick argue over which gift you should open first, and finally you just grab a random one from the pile and tear the paper off.

"That one's lame," Rick's tone sounds almost like whining, but you know better than to believe Rick Thunderbolt _whines_.

Don clicks his tongue in annoyance. "It is not."

You pull the lid off the box to reveal clothing. "I mean, I need clothes, right?" There are a couple pairs of pants and some shirts, including one with a snarling dog and the words _Talk shit, get bit_. "I'm going to guess Rick picked this one out?"

He only offers you a thumbs up, and Don sighs. "Just don't wear it to school, okay?"

"It's too amazing to wear to school, the teachers would shit themselves."

Your father only shakes his head and grumbles under his breath.

The next present you open is a book with different styles of star racers. You flip through it briefly, admiring the pages that include in-depth information on engines, thrusters, and other parts.

"Wasn't sure if you would still be interested in racing," Don mumbles and rubs the back of his neck.

"No, it's great, I love it," you grin at him, and he visibly relaxes. "I'd love to start tinkering again."

"Then open this one next," Rick says, pushing another gift towards you. It's heavier than you expected, and you frown at both of them before carefully peeling the paper off to reveal a shiny new toolbox. You wordlessly open it and examine the tools inside.

Don shifts in his seat. "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to say. Thanks, I guess?"

"Do you not like it?"

You shake your head. "No, it's perfect, I love it. I just, it's a lot. Thank you." To everyone's surprise, including yourself, you hug him.

Your father's arms tighten around you, and you hear him sigh. "It's so good to have you back, Eva."

"It's good to be back," you whisper. And you mean it.

* * *

 **AN:** Have I ever mentioned how much I hate FF's formatting bc I _do_.

If this chapter felt rushed, it's probably because... it was. This year has been a heck of a ride, between travel, finishing up college, and not-great things happening in my personal life. Also lost my beta reader, so if you notice anything is like. Wildly misspelled or just sounds really awkward, feel free to drop me a message. I might also check back in after a day or two has passed, since that's usually when I notice any errors. This is also the longest chapter I've posted, but I didn't really want to break it up at all.

Anyway! Looking ahead, not sure when the next update will be. I've got a bunch of stuff written up, and I'm super excited to share it with all of you! (The return of our favorite mechanics! The introduction of the Wilde family [or what's left of it]! Avatar shenanigans!) But I have to write the stuff to connect all together first, which is... difficult, when one is as unmotivated as I am. So all I can really say is, I'm not planning on abandoning this, it might just not be updated super regularly.

Thank you for reading, and for all the comments and kudos you've given me! I'm so glad so many people have been enjoying this!


	7. Chapter 6- Fearing the Fall

**AN:** Who's this asshole?  
Also, cw for alcohol/mentions of past alcoholism near the end of this chapter?

* * *

Of all the possible directions you could have seen your life going, playing house with your former manager and his daughter was not one of them.

It grates on you some days. You're _Rick Thunderbolt_. No one and nothing could tie you down, and that's the way you liked it. Until your crash, that is, and then everything was turned on its head. Upon your return to Earth, you spiraled into a directionless and depressed mess. Racing was everything to you, and without it, you were lost. At least until you found someone more lost than you.

But after a few months, Molly's come a long way. She still gets that haunted look in her eyes sometimes, gets quiet in a way that tells you she's not really _here_ , but somewhere far away, and you let her stew a little bit before ruffling her feathers and bringing her back. She'll piss and moan about how annoying you are, but you're perceptive enough to notice the relief too.

And yet, something Don told you back on Alwas still haunts you. _The higher we climb, the more I fear our fall_. You push the words out of your mind, but they keep coming back, and it feels like a premonition. You know things aren't perfect, and won't be for a long time for Don, Molly, and yourself, but you just want to keep pretending, just another day.

The first cracks start to show when the semester ends and Molly's grades are released. You told her that no matter what, you would make her whatever she wanted to eat to celebrate another quarter down. You return from the store after she gets home, and as soon as you walk through the door, you hear her and Don arguing. You feel your temper flare; if Don is giving that poor girl shit because of something as dumb as a _letter_ , you'll—

"But I tried so hard and it still wasn't _good_ enough," Molly yells.

You hear Don sigh. "Eva, it's okay, it's just a grade—"

"It's an F!"

"And it's a learning experience. You tried to do it one way and it didn't work, so now we'll just have to find another way to do it."

Your anger dissipates when you realize it's Molly beating herself up, and not her father verbally berating her. You finally walk into the kitchen, and Molly and Don both look at you. "Something happen?" you ask.

"I failed history and English," Molly says. "And I barely passed math and science."

You shrug. "Better than I did, I dropped out of school at 15."

Molly brightens a little at the statement. "Can I drop out?"

"Absolutely not," Don snaps.

When she looks to you, hope shining in her eyes, you shake your head. "I'm with your dad on this one. Stay in school, kid."

She stomps her foot on the wood floor and crosses her arms over her chest. "What's the point? I'm not going to graduate anyway."

You set the bags down on the table and mirror her posture. "Sounds like you're giving up."

"Yeah, so?" she challenges.

"You're gonna let school kick your ass? You're gonna let some nerds who think they know stuff make you feel bad about yourself?"

"Rick, shut _up_."

"You could probably teach your science teachers about the physics and engineering stuff you know from racing, a letter on a piece of paper doesn't reflect how much you know."

"Quit using logic! I want to be right!" she fumes.

"And I want your dad to show me how to make these dumplings already, but here we are, arguing about your grades."

Molly _harrumphs_ and stomps out into the living room. You and Don exchange a look, before you hear a _whump_ , and when you lean around the doorway, you find her swinging a decorative pillow at the wall and grumbling to herself.

"Thought about putting her in martial arts or something?" you ask Don. "Could be a great outlet for her aggression."

"It would appear that she has already found one," he replies coolly, and you watch her hit the wall again. "As long as she doesn't break anything, I'm alright with it."

"I can hear you talking about me!"

"Then stop listening," you shoot back. She brings the pillow up to her face and screams into it, instead of giving you a coherent response.

Don sighs. "Let's get dinner started," he suggests, so you both wash your hands and pull out the ingredients you need.

"I'm worried about her," Don confesses, as you combine the ingredients for the dough. "She was doing really well, and while I knew that this was coming, and she probably knew this was coming, it frustrates her."

"Fearing the fall," you mutter, and Don grunts in agreement. "What are we gonna do about her grades?"

"She needs help, but she's too stubborn to admit it."

You snort. "That sounds familiar."

"Oh, shut it, we're not talking about _me_ ," Don hisses. "Her problem is that she has a lot of missing assignments and she's disorganized. And when I try to help her, she tells me to back off."

"Pretty sure she uses another four letter word," you comment.

Don chuckles. "Yeah, she's got quite the vocabulary. Maya would be proud."

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. "You trying to tell me that such a graceful and classy woman used such foul language?"

"She w _as_ graceful and classy. She just also happened to swear up a storm. She cussed me out the first time I met her."

Molly stomps into the kitchen. "Are you talking about me again?"

"We're talking about how much your mother swore," you explain. She pinches her face up like she's trying to decide if you're pulling her leg or not, so you take advantage of her confusion and say, "Want to help us with dinner?"

After that, things seem to level out. You know Don and Molly met with some of her teachers and the school counselor to come up with a "plan" to improve her grades. They don't really tell you too much about the details, but you do find Molly doing her homework at the kitchen table more often. She says there's less to distract her, but when you check in with her, you find her staring off into space. You try to ask her what she's thinking about, but she always shrugs you off and goes back to doing whatever she was trying to do.

The beginning of the semester is a mess, to put it nicely. It's not that Molly isn't trying, as she seems so adamantly to believe. You watch her struggle and work and try harder and harder to do well. You find her asleep at the kitchen table, drooling all over her textbooks.

"I get that you're concerned about your grades, which is great," you say one morning, as she's running around trying to gather everything for school, "But you have to take care of yourself, kid."

"I can sleep when I'm dead," she grumbles. "Or when the semester's over."

"Just because you _can_ doesn't mean you _should_."

She doesn't say anything to that.

* * *

Molly becomes more withdrawn over the next few months. You don't really know how to help her; raising a kid isn't something you've ever imagined doing, and raising a kid with so much baggage, especially when you have your own, is way out of your league. So you do small things, like make her favorite foods, or ask about her day, or even buy some more red hair dye as hers starts to fade. She perks up a little more after that, but only for a week before the lethargy settles over her again. You and Don know this isn't a battle you can fight for her, so instead, you do what you can to let her know that there are people who care about her, and hope that'll be enough.

In late February, you find Don nursing a glass of wine, the half-empty bottle sitting on the table next to him. "Controlling yourself, I hope?" is all you say about it. You may not know everything about Don's past, but you know that he would rather drown his problems in booze than confront them.

He sighs heavily. "This is the only glass I've had today, but thank you for your concern."

"Good." You won't say it, but the "I _will_ drag your ass to rehab" sits heavily between you, like an invisible elephant. Molly doesn't need to lose her father to the bottle again. "Doing alright?" you ask instead.

He shakes his head slowly. "I'm worried about her. I hate feeling powerless like this."

You settle into the chair across from him and slide the bottle towards yourself so you can read the label. Expensive shit, and tastes like shit too, if it's the same wine the two of you splurged on after your first big win. You grunt in disgust and push it back towards him, and he rolls his eyes. "She'll be alright. We just have to make sure we're here for her," you assure him. And maybe also yourself.

"I hope you're right," Don mumbles. "She needs therapy. Hell, _I_ need therapy."

"We all need therapy."

Don snorts and drums his fingers on the table as he stares without seeing at his wine glass. "Too bad were all under a gag order."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"Not sure how far that extends," he says, but grins at you. "I appreciate what you're doing, Rick."

You wave your hand. "Just doing my job."

"No, you're not. You didn't have to stick around as long as you have. Heaven knows I don't deserve it." He frowns. "I know you've got a lot on your own plate, but I really am grateful for everything you've done for Eva and me."

"Yeah, well, someone has to make sure you two don't fall apart."

"And it didn't have to be you, so thank you."

You open your mouth to object, but Don cuts you off by saying, "I'm trying to use my words and express my gratitude, please don't make this harder than it is."

You chuckle at that. "Yeah, okay, thanks Don."

"You're welcome."

You stand and gather up your things to leave, but before you slip out the front door, you smirk and say, "Great job using your words like an adult."

He sighs theatrically and slumps over, resting his chin in his hand, and grumbles, "Goodnight, Rick."

* * *

 **AN:** Did you think that it was all gonna be fun and games? PSYCH. Recovery is a bitch and so am I. :3

Yeah so this chapter took way longer than I wanted it to. The good news is, I finally got a job! The bad news is, it's a crummy retail job that sucks my soul and fills me with existential dread, so when I finally get time off, all I want to do is play mind-numbing video games! (Assassins Creed Odyssey is so good and I am so gay for Kassandra and her biceps, y'all. Also, running around Ancient Greece and putting her family back together? Hell. Fuckin. Yeah.)  
Anyway, to be more on-topic, I have no idea what the update schedule for this is gonna look like! I have stuff drafted up for the next few chapters, it'll just be a matter of finding time and motivation to work on them. I also have this terrible habit of jumping back and forth between projects, so even when I am motivated, it's not always to work on this particular fic. As of right now, I have no intentions of abandoning this! I'm someone who is determined to see things through to the end, and this is no exception. All I ask is that you be patient with me, especially since the next few chapters will be a little more angsty, and probably get into some mental health stuff, which is more draining for me to write than happy, fluffy stuff. But I promise the happy fluffy stuff will return.

Most of the work on this chapter was done in a couple of days, but I'm tired of staring at it and feeling guilty over not updating. If you see something that doesn't make a lot of sense or have ideas to make it flow better, I'm always open to them! I might also have to rework it depending on how the next chapter comes out.  
As always, thank you for reading, and for being patient. Until next time 3


	8. Chapter 7- Downhill

**AN:** Gotta get worse before we get better  
(Also I really hate naming chapters)

* * *

Time is weird sometimes.

As the spring semester begins, it feels like it has only been a couple of weeks and also several years since you returned to Earth. Sometimes the knowledge that this time last year, you were still at Stern slaps you across the face and sets your head spinning.

It doesn't help that you are essentially running on autopilot. You're stuck in a loop of wake up, go to school, shuffle back and forth between your classes, go home, do your homework, go to bed, and repeat. But you don't really realize how bad it is until, during the middle of lunch one day, everything snaps into crystal clarity, and the cafeteria around you is suddenly too loud. One of the girls you usually sit with nudges you playfully and says, "Isn't that right, Eva?"

You blink at her, taking in every faint freckle across her nose, her impossibly blue eyes, the strands of light, curly hair that have fallen out of her braid, and let out an undignified, "Huh?"

You notice the concern that settles across her features, and she says, "You were just talking about the homework assignment for Ms. Baker's class, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, right," you stammer. You push yourself to your feet. "I need to go to the bathroom," you say, before stumbling away from the table.

You brace your arms against the restroom sink, grateful that you are alone as you stare at your reflection and try to remember what you had said. You couldn't _possibly_ have had an entire conversation without being aware of it, could you? A wave of nausea sweeps over you, but you choke it down. You are in control. You _have_ to be. "Keep it together," you order your reflection. "Everything is fine."

Except everything is _not_ fine, and despite your best efforts, you can feel your mental health slipping. You think your friends have noticed, even if they don't say anything, because how could they not? Your teachers must have said something to your counselor too, because you get called into his office a couple of times.

"I'm just tired," you tell him each session. It's not completely false.

"You know you can always ask for help, right?" he asks. "But maybe spring break will be good for you, and give you some time to recover. Do you have any big plans?"

You always forget that breaks are a thing, since yours were always spent at Stern. And suddenly, you have something to work towards, a purpose. You can let yourself feel lousy if you can just make it to spring break, and hope that a week will be enough time for you to put yourself back together before you have to return to school. You just have to make it to the end of March. It's not that far away.

Less than a week to go, and you can't get out of bed. You _try_ , you really do, but there's a voice in your head telling you there's no point, and it's hard to disagree. Why bother, you ask, when nothing you ever do will amount to anything? Your grades are abysmal despite your best efforts, you hardly have any friends, and you continue to be a disappointment to your father, who you can hear calling the school to tell them you're sick. Yeah, you're sick alright. Sick of being a failure. Sick of all your hard work not amounting to anything. And you were doing so _well_ , too.

You don't know how much time passes, the days and nights running together, and you don't really want to know either. It would probably just make you feel worse, which would be pretty remarkable. You do know that Rick, and to a lesser extent, Don, keep checking in on you, bringing you food multiple times a day (the only way you can really measure the passing of time) and keeping you company, even if you can't bring yourself to acknowledge their presence. The only thing you can really do is sleep, but even that is fitful, the nightmares having returned and intensified. Rick shows up in them now, and when you wake up, you expect him to tell you calmly what a terrible person you are for ruining his life and career before leaving, this time for good.

One day you wake up and you're completely alone. The lack of light from behind the window shades tell you that it's either still night or early morning, but either way, it's not a time you're usually awake. You manage to pull yourself out of bed and drag yourself into the bathroom, but you can't look at the mirror because you don't want to see your reflection. You know she'll be a mess. When you walk out into the hallway, Don is waiting for you. It almost makes you jump to see him there.

"Get dressed and pack a bag, Eva We're getting out of the house," he says, matter-of-factly.

You blink at him. "Why? What time is it?" Your voice is raspy from disuse.

"It's a surprise."

You watch him walk back downstairs. "But you hate surprises," you mumble.

"A surprise for you, not me," he explains. When he looks over his shoulder at you, there's a pleading expression in his eyes. "Please, Eva, just trust me on this one. It'll be good for you."

That's not ominous at all, you think as you walk back into your room. You start digging through your clothes, but you don't really want to wear any of them. You end up just closing your eyes and grabbing the first shirts and pairs of pants you touch, throw most of them in a bag, and then shuffle back to the bathroom because you don't know the last time you showered and you should probably do something about that.

The sun has started to peek over the horizon when you finally lumber downstairs. Rick convinces you to take a baggie of dry cereal with you after you refuse to eat anything else. The three of you climb into Don's car and you stare without seeing out the window, the houses of suburbia slowly being replaced by growing expanses of desert. The unbroken, sandy landscape rushing past lulls you back to sleep, and you dream of dust storms and ruins.

The sound of someone calling your name rouses you from your nap. You blink a couple of times to clear your eyes and adjust to the brightness of the noonday sun. The squat, grey building outside is unfamiliar, and your throat tightens. What if the "surprise" was bringing you to another boarding school? What if your dad has given up on you? You grip the seatbelt still across your chest and swallow.

Rick is talking to someone, but you can't see who around his bulk. Surely, Rick wouldn't agree to sending you away, right? Yeah, you took away his ability to race, but he wouldn't stoop that low, would he? Another person approaches, and you squint, because you can't possibly be seeing who you think you are…

Hesitantly, you open the door and call out to the figure. "Koji?"

The man perks up and turns towards you at his name. The smile that crosses his face is just as big and warm as you remember it being. Rick steps to the side, and Stan leans closer to his partner to see what's caught his attention.

You gingerly climb out of the car and take a step towards them. Stan takes that as all the invitation he needs to bound forward and sweep you into his arms. You can hear Koji telling him to give you space as you return the hug and tuck your face into the front of his overalls to hide the tears sliding down your cheeks.

* * *

 **AN:** WHOA NEW CHARACTERS! For real though, I have quite a bit written up with Stan and Koji and even more planned for them for this fic, so I am very excited to finally publish something with them! Speaking of Stan and Koji, this fic finally surpassed the first thing I ever published on AO3 in terms of views (thank you to everyone who's reading!), so I'm glad to be bringing back these good good bois. They're some of my faves, and they don't get enough love (and I'm sure they won't be in whatever Sav has planned next).  
I am trying very hard to get back into a regular update schedule, so we'll see how that goes! I'm not sure if it'll be every Sunday, or every other Sunday, I guess it depends on my work schedule and my motivation. I do have the next chapter written (it was supposed to be part of this chapter, but I decided to give myself a little buffer, and therefore some more time to get a head-start on the next chapters).  
As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to send me a comment or reach out to me on my Tumblr! (nibswrites or nightbloggingbyday)


	9. Chapter 8: Friends in Sandy Places

The living room is small and cozy. Stan and Koji gathered up chairs from the kitchen to set around the small coffee table before offering you all iced tea and some scones that Koji made the day before. They're delicious, but your appetite has yet to return.

"I gotta say, Rick, when you called, I thought it was some sort of prank," Stan says. He and Koji sit side by side in the kitchen chairs, insisting that you, your father, and Rick take the more comfortable couch and armchair. You don't miss the way Koji's knee brushes against Stan's leg every so often.

"And then we thought it was business," Koji adds. "We wouldn't have minded, of course."

"As much as I'm glad to be back on Earth, things are almost… boring."

Koji adjusts his glasses. "Speak for yourself. I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime. Anyway, how are you all doing?" he asks.

Rick and Don both glance at you, and you stare pointedly at your shoes. You hear Stan scoff, and you recoil further.

"Look, if McMullen hadn't resigned after this whole mess, I would'a… I don't know. This whole situation is just _bull_."

"Stan," Koji chides.

"Don't you 'Stan' me, Koji, you know I'm right."

"Of course you are, but you don't have to use such language."

"You've said worse and you know it. What was he thinking?" Stan's voice drops in pitch and he puffs up his chest. "'I know you just saw some traumatic shit that no doubt took its toll on your psyche, but you're not allowed to discuss any of this with anyone under any circumstances.' _Psh,_ as if."

You carefully lift your gaze to the two mechanics sitting across from you. "What do you mean?" you ask.

Stan takes a deep breath. "Do you know how many times we thought you _died_?"

"And somehow, you always came back," Koji says softly.

"Well, _Molly_ did," Stan growls. Uncomfortable silence falls over the room.

"He's not… dead," you mumble softly. You wrap your arms around your middle and add, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he was."

"It's a miracle one of you _didn't_ die," Stan crosses his arms and shakes his head. "After everything you had to go through. But sure, a race is the best way to figure out who gets to be the next 'Master of the Galaxy.' Let's send a couple of kids to compete."

Rick finally speaks up. "I'm sorry, what?"

Koji gives Stan a dirty look, and Stan has the sense to look at least a little sorry.

"That's what the prize was," you start to explain, since it doesn't seem like anyone else really wants to. "Whoever won became the next Avatar."

"So you're telling me that Jordan Wilde, goofball extraordinaire, is…"

"The Avatar," Don nods.

Rick rubs his temples. "Lord have mercy."

"All I have to say, is let's hope he figures out a better way to decide this succession business," Don mutters. "Or he spends the next ten-thousand years training to be a better pilot than he was on Alwas."

"Oh, _god_ ," Koji puts his head in his hands as Stan laughs. The image of Jordan attempting to race against the next generation of candidates is… terrifying. But you can't stop the giggle that escapes despite your best efforts.

You clap your hands over your mouth, mortified. "I shouldn't laugh about that," you mumble.

"I mean, it's true," Stan says with a shrug. "Jordan's good at plenty of things, but definitely not piloting. But he's got time to figure it out."

Koji glances your direction and seems to notice what you're too afraid to say. "Built anything recently, Molly?" he asks.

"Not really," you mutter. "Been too dumb to do anything." Despite your sour mood, you are grateful for the subject change.

"I really doubt that," he says, with an encouraging smile. "You've been through a lot, and I don't think anyone blames you for how you feel. Maybe being back in a garage will help cheer you up?"

You look at the men seated around you, from Don's hopeful expression to Rick's slow nod and Stan's grin. You stare down at your balled-up hands and take a shuddering breath. "You don't have to do this, I don't deserve it."

"Hey now, none of that," Stan chides. "We want to help. We all went through a lot together, we can help each other through it. And, well, maybe you can help us."

You furrow your brow. "With what?"

"It'll be easier to show you." Stan climbs to his feet and leads you out of the house. "We have a customer who collects old star-racers, originals, classics, you know. He wants us to try to restore one, but we haven't had much luck so far," he explains, as you walk towards the workshop.

"It came to us in really rough condition," Koji says with a grimace. "It's been a while since I've seen a racer in that bad of shape."

"Like, 'got cut in half by a Crog trident' bad, or…?" you ask.

Stan frowns. "There were rodents living in the thrusters. _Lots_ of rodents."

"Which we didn't know about until _after_ we tried to get them running." Koji adds.

"Burning mouse shit is a really unique smell."

" _Stan_!" Koji elbows his partner. "Watch your language!"

"It's okay, I've said worse," you mumble.

Stan smirks at Koji, who only sighs and takes his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose. "Anyway," the first man continues. "It's just one problem after another with this thing, and we're running out of ideas. We were kind of hoping a new perspective might help."

You finally reach the garage, and Stan pulls the tarp off the racer in question.

"Oh, wow," you grimace. "She looks… really bad."

Stan shrugs. "The rust is an easy fix, we can get her all new plating and make her look good as new. It's everything else that's a problem."

"You're sure you want _my_ help?" you ask, suddenly very doubtful. "I mean, I don't have any professional training. You two are the experts."

Stan scoffs. "Training, shmaining. How are you going to learn if you don't get your hands dirty? Besides, you grafted a homemade rocket seat into a star-racer and yeah, it was a little unstable until we gave you some pointers, but it didn't immediately kill you. That's like, half of being a mechanic."

"That is a severe oversimplification of what we do," Koji grumbles, and you can't help but chuckle.

"Koji, what doesn't kill you is the next big breakthrough. And sometimes, what does kill you is an even _bigger_ breakthrough, if Burroughs is anything to go by. So, what do you say, Molly? Wanna help us get this bad boy up and running?" Stan is positively _beaming_ at you, and you glance between him and the star-racer as you consider the offer.

"Well, it might be cool. And I could use the tools Dad and Rick got me for Christmas…"

"Is that a yes?" Koji presses.

You cross your arms and glare at the racer. "It looks like how I feel, and nothing should look that bad. Let's fix this thing already."

Koji pats you on the shoulder and Stan ruffles your hair and lets out a whoop. "We can talk about the implications of that statement later," the former says. "But we're both happy you're here."

* * *

 **AN:** Another short chapter, sorry! I'm hoping the next one will be a little longer! I don't know if I'm super satisfied with all of it, but I've also had most of this written up for a couple months, and I'm too lazy to completely rewrite it.

Figured someone had to let Rick into the loop regarding Jordan's fate eventually. Also, if you aren't that deep into the Oban lore that is only mentioned in the artbook, Burroughs was a scientist who fucked up and materialized himself on the moon. I think the exact wording in the book is something like, "he didn't survive the experience but bequeathed humanity a route to the stars." So there's that reference, and also how the writers are justifying faster-than-light travel. I know very little about science-y stuff, so I'm really not about to start tackling that topic.

Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 9: The Difference between People

**AN:** This dumb site won't let me put the full chapter name in again, it's "The Difference between People and Star-Racers"

I... got a little carried away with this chapter. Whoops.

* * *

The racer in question is, in fact, an early prototype from the '30s. "People don't build them to last," Koji explains, as he examines the motherboard while you peer over his shoulder. Much of the hardware is faulty as well, and Koji has been working to replace all of it. You can hear Stan muttering to himself about the thrusters.

"What did you do with the rats?" you ask him.

"They were gone before we got the racer. They left plenty behind to remember them by, though."

You grimace. "At least you didn't kill them."

"It would have been a quick death, if it's any consolation. Could have been dinner, too." He grins and winks as he says it.

"Ew!" You shudder at the idea.

"So, what do you notice?" Koji asks.

You return your attention to the project at hand. Wires and tubing poke out from the underside of the console, creating the image of the grisly remains of some mechanical beast. "Looks like the rats got in here, too. Or someone didn't know anything about how to wire these things correctly." You grab a handful of wires and pull them loose, which makes Koji grimace, but you ignore him as you roll the bundle between your palms. The sensation grounds you as you think. "Is this why the thrusters aren't working?"

"Well, nothing is going to work very well if the electronic components are out of order, but if hooked up to a proper power source, we should be able to get the thrusters firing." Koji shrugs before adding, "I honestly think they're just shot. The tech was iffy when they were built, that's why we don't use models like these."

"You sure your client doesn't want to just scrap this? I feel like whatever he's paying you isn't worth it."

"Well, he's paying us quite a lot," Koji says.

"A lot, a lot," Stan calls from the ground. "Like 'secure retirement by 70' a lot."

"Only by 70?" you tease.

Stan waves dismissively. "Just you wait, squirt, it'll be worse when you get older."

"There could be a revolution tomorrow."

"If you can get everything organized, I'll be marching right behind you, Comrade Molly."

You scoff. "I can't get organized enough to turn all my homework assignments in on time, there's no way I could organize the complete overthrow of our government."

"Hey now, stay positive," Koji chuckles. "But, if you don't mind me asking, is everything okay at home?"

You look back at the little ball of wiring in your hands and sigh. "It's okay. I just… I think I'm broken. Like, in my head."

"What do you mean?"

You take a seat with your back against the wall of the cockpit and focus on untangling all the wires you've balled up. "I mean, I thought I was doing well. I wasn't having nightmares as often, and things were okay with Dad, and I was kind of keeping up with school work, but then things got… weird and bad again."

"Weird?" he asks.

"Yeah, like, time passed really quickly, and then not at all, and I either spent all my time sleeping or I couldn't turn my brain off enough to be able to fall asleep on the first place. And I couldn't remember stuff, like where I'd placed things I needed, or what my homework was, and I'd read the same sentence over and over again and it would just feel like my brain was full of jelly or something. All the individual words made sense but together, they were just gibberish. And then one day everything was just, really clear." You frown as you remember it. "It was too clear. Everything was too loud and too bright and I just didn't know how to handle it, but the more I think about it, I think that's just how the world normally is, and I've just been living in some sort of fog." You glance up at Koji, who is watching you with what appears to be concern, and your eyes widen. "I probably sound like a _lunatic_."

Koji shakes his head. "No, you don't sound like a lunatic. You sound like someone who's gone through a lot, and is trying to deal with all of that. I think we all are, in our own ways." He looks down at Stan and sighs. "But you lived all of it. I can't even begin to imagine everything you saw after the race ended. I think it would affect anyone."

"But I should just get over it right?" you demand. "I should be _okay_. Why can't I just be okay?"

"People… people aren't like machines, Molly. You can diagnose the issue, sure, but it's not always an easy fix. Sometimes, there's no definite fix, and you have to keep looking into the problem and trying new things when the old methods stop doing the trick."

You frown. "So, what are you saying? I'll always be broken?"

"Ugh, I'm so bad at this," he grumbles, taking his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He takes a deep breath and says, "When I was younger, I felt like I always had to be perfect. I don't even know _why_ , it's not like my parents ever said anything or did anything to make me feel that way. I guess I just somehow convinced myself that if I was anything _less_ than perfect, I was a failure. And it took until I failed my first test in my first year of college before anyone could see how bad it was, because I just broke down." He folds and unfolds the arms of his glasses and sighs. "Like, I went on a self-destructive bender and tried to sabotage everything I ever worked for, all my relationships, _everything_. Even now, I get a voice in the back of my head telling me that everyone hates me and I'm not good enough. I don't know if it's something that will ever really go away." He finally meets your eyes. "I'm not trying to tell you this to make you feel discouraged. I guess it's more like, even if it never goes away, it gets better. You learn how to live with it, and find ways to manage it. For me, having people who care about me no matter what has helped a lot, which is why Stan and I agreed to this as soon as Rick called. Maybe we aren't super close, and maybe our situations aren't even remotely comparable, but Stan and I want to help, if you'll let us." Koji smiles and adds, "You aren't alone, Molly. And it gets better, with a lot of time and effort."

"Haha, you're stuck with us!" Stan pokes his head over the side of the cockpit, startling both of you. Koji falls backwards of his stool and starts cursing loudly.

"I told you he was a potty mouth," Stan teases. "Sorry to interrupt your heart-to-heart, except not really. You're part of the family now, kid, whether you like it or not." He ruffles your hair, and you swat at him and sigh in mock exasperation as you fight against the smile threatening to overtake your expression of annoyance. "But for real. We've got your back, Molly. Anything you need from us, you just gotta ask."

"Stan, sometimes I think my life would be easier without you," Koji snaps.

"Easier, maybe, but a lot more boring for sure. Now Molly, is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"Uh, no?"

"You sure?"

You nod. "Yeah, I think I'm sure."

"Okay, cool, because I think I may have figured out what's wrong with those damn thrusters, but I need you to hold out your hands."

"You're not gonna give her a rat carcass, are you?" Koji groans.

You start to withdraw your hands, but Stan laughs and shakes his head. "No, no, I promise! Just let me see them." You feel a little self-conscious, but Stan is apparently satisfied. "Perfect! I need those little mitts of yours, _chiquita_." He climbs back down to the ground, and when you don't immediately follow him, he turns back around and waves. "Come on, now! We don't have all day!"

"Am I gonna regret this?" you ask Koji.

The man sighs, but he's smiling. "I haven't regretted him yet, so I think you'll be okay."

You find Stan next to the thrusters. It looks like he's completely stripped away most of the outer components, which litter the floor of the garage. He grins as you approach.

"What do you want me to do, now?" you ask.

He points into the turbine. "I need you to reach into there and remove the blockage."

"If this is a dead rat, I am going to punch you," you threaten him.

"It's probably not a dead rat! Probably. Look," he pulls out a flashlight and clicks it on, shining the beam of light inside, "I think it's probably fuel build-up. There's a pair of gloves if you want them."

You sigh. "Yeah, gloves might be a good idea. This stuff isn't radioactive, is it? I'm not going to grow a third eye?"

"Radioactivity won't make you grow a third eye, Molly, come on," he says, rolling his eyes. "It'll give you cancer and maybe cause birth defects if you ever decide to have kids. But you're probably safe. I don't think they started using fusion as a fuel source until the mid-forties, at least."

You hear Koji snort behind you. "You aren't helping anything."

Stan laughs. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood! But okay, Serious Stan time." He schools his expression into something stern and says, "Molly, there is no radioactive material in this thruster turbine. It is statistically very improbable that you will die from this, but I will assume responsibility if you do."

"Yeah, well, my dad will probably have your head if I do, so." You pull on the gloves Koji offers you and square up against the turbine. "I'm gonna need a step stool." Stan grabs you one, after making some wise-crack about your height, and sets it in front of the thruster. "Okay, I'm doing this now," you announce. "I just need to remove whatever's blocking this turbine?"

Stan nods and says, "That's about the gist of it. I'm hoping that will fix our problem, but otherwise, I'll just have to rebuild the whole thing."

You climb up on the stool and start to reach your hand into the thruster. "That sounds like a pain in the ass."

"Oh, sorry, did I say _I_ would have to rebuild it? I meant you. _You_ would have to rebuild it."

You kick at him, and feel a little bit of satisfaction when he mutters an "ouch."

"He's kidding, we would help you," Koji assures you.

"I would sure hope so," you grumble. With your cheek pressed against the cool metal of the turbine, you grope blindly for anything out of the ordinary. "This would be a hell of a lot easier if I could actually see what I was doing."

"It was towards the body of the racer, where the fuel would enter the combustion chamber," Stan says.

You feel your way in that direction, pausing when you feel something give. "Oh god, it's _squishy_ ," you whine. "This is gross!"

Koji chuckles. "You're doing great, just take your time."

"I'm going to throw this at you, Stan," you threaten.

He pulls his goggles down over his eyes and says, "That's rude. Why would you do that? What if it kills me?"

"You just told me I wouldn't die from this!"

"I said it's statistically unlikely!"

"If I die, I'm coming back as a ghost so I can kick your ass!" You paw at the blockage and suppress a shudder. "And then I'm going to kick your ghost's ass!"

"You'd leave Koji all alone like that?"

"Koji's a big boy, he can manage."

The man in question laughs. "Please don't kill my boyfriend, Molly, I would be very sad."

"So you two _are_ together."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stan challenges.

"It's not a bad thing. You two are just really close. I'd be a lot happier for you if I weren't currently shoulder-deep in this thruster, digging sludge out of the fuel lines, because you asked me to. I'm just generally not very happy with you right now." You pull your arm out and glare into the turbine. "How much is in here? My arm is starting to hurt from being all contorted."

"Well, I don't know, I'm not the one shoulder-deep in a thruster turbine." Stan motions for you to scoot out of the way and clicks on his flashlight. "I don't see anything. See how far you can get in there."

"What, you just want me to crawl in there?"

"I'm not going to fit. Look at these shoulders, Molly." He flexes, and you roll your eyes. Koji laughs until Stan adds, "Koji might be thin enough, but he's too tall."

"Oh, screw you. You wouldn't be able to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without me."

"I love how tall you are! It's just not going to help us with this particular task."

"Are you calling me short?" you demand.

Stan sighs and throws his hands up in defeat. "I can't win."

"Ugh, fine, I'll try to crawl in there." You turn yourself sideways and start to shimmy into the cavern. "If I get stuck, go find _Rick_. If you tell my dad, he will probably have a heart attack and never let me anywhere near you two again."

"What would Rick do?" Koji asks.

"Probably laugh, and then remain calm and find a practical solution." You glare at the metal right in front of your nose and huff. "It's too dark in here, I can't see anything."

You hear clunking just outside of the turbine, and then a beam of light shines down from an opening on top of the thruster. You squint up at Stan. At least, you assume it's Stan. You can't really tell with the light in your eyes.

"Is this better?" his voice calls.

"It would be if it weren't right in my eyes."

"Then don't look directly at it."

"Oh, of course, how could I be so _dumb_?" you mutter under your breath. You will admit that it's easier to see into the fuel line now. "Okay, it looks like there's a little more in there; I should be able to clear it all out."

"This is why you're in the turbine, and not me."

"Careful, I might l throw this gunk at you."

"Maybe I'll turn off the flashlight."

"Oh, hey Mr. Wei!" Koji's voice calls.

"I didn't realize you were working on an original Bolz!" your father gushes. "I've never seen one in person!"

"Well, considering the shape this one came to us in, I can't say I'm surprised. You're familiar with them?" Koji asks. Stan pantomimes at you to get out of the turbine, or maybe more accurately, get the _hell_ out of the turbine, considering how frantically he is gesticulating at you. You imagine your father would be quite concerned if he found you crammed in here like this. You try to wriggle your way out, but find that crawling _in_ was considerably easier than crawling _out_ will be. You're grateful that Stan started on the thruster on the side furthest from the door; if Koji can keep your father distracted, you may have enough time to escape before he even realizes what's happening.

"It was more of a… juvenile fascination."

"Just admit that you're a nerd about star-racers, Don, it's fine," Rick's voice approaches the racer, and you freeze. You look up at Stan and raise one finger to your lips in a _shush_ gesture, while pointing in the direction you think Rick is coming. Stan nods and relays your message.

Don splutters, "What's that supposed to mean, Rick?"

"You know an awful lot about star-racers."

"It's my _job_ , isn't it?"

"Exactly, so quit being so self-conscious about it."

Koji continues to talk to your father, but you've stopped listening as you focus on freeing yourself from the thruster. Finally, you hear the technician ask, "What brings you two out here?"

Your father clears his throat. You imagine that he also straightens up a little bit and clasps his hands behind his back in that way he does when he wants to feel important. "We wanted to see how everything was going. Where's Eva?"

"Need some help?" Rick asks, peering through the other side of the turbine. You grin sheepishly.

"Maybe a little. Can you just, like, pull on my legs while I try to wiggle out?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, okay. Let me know if I'm hurting you."

"Oh, ah, Eva's been helping us get this thruster working," Stan replies to your father's question.

Rick grabs your ankles and starts tugging, and you brace your arms against the metal surrounding you and push. You really just need your hips free, and then you can probably manage the rest on your own.

"Is she over there? She's awfully quiet."

"I'm here!" you yell. "Hold on!"

You hear footsteps on concrete, and Rick lets go of your legs. You lower them to the step stool, and emerge from the turbine in time for your father to round the side of the racer.

"What are you covered in?" he demands.

"Uh, fuel build-up, probably?" you look down at your clothes, and realize they're most likely stained for good. At least you aren't too attached to this shirt. You look up at Stan and grin. "I think you're good now."

He gives you a thumbs-up. "You did great, Molly."

"Yeah, well, I just hope they work now," you grumble and cross your arms over your chest.

"We've gotta put everything back together and get it all hooked up," Koji says. "Believe it or not, this was probably the easy part."

You groan. "Of course it was."

"Look on the bright side!" Stan says, patting you on the shoulder, "I probably don't need you to crawl into this turbine again."

" _This_ turbine?"

"The other one is up for debate, currently."

You pull your gloves off and swat at him with them.

* * *

 **AN:** I feel like this chapter was a little banter-heavy but also, I felt a little guilty for all the sadness I put through Molly in in the past, so here's some happy, joke-y stuff to make it up to her.

I know absolutely nothing about technology or mechanical stuff, and I honestly wanted to avoid this sort of thing but then I wrote myself into a corner so, bear with my lack of knowledge regarding anything like this. Hopefully this is the last time I attempt anything like this.

Also I've. Been meaning to say this for a while but I keep forgetting: if you're worried (or hoping) that Rick and Molly's relationship is anything more than father/daughter or mentor/mentee... it's not. He's at least 15 years older than her. Even if she were an adult, that's pretty creepy! Rick will only ever be a paternal figure to Molly in this fic, so if that was something you were nervous about, rest assured that I do not support this ship. I should also probably mention that her relationship with Stan and Koji will be strictly familial/friendly as well.


	11. Chapter 10- Hot Pot

**AN:** Thank you Eulerian for explaining hot pot to me and chispita for reminding me of a detail I'd forgotten about that totally helped me get myself out of the corner I'd written myself into! You're both great 3

* * *

As it turns out, you don't have to crawl into the second thruster. Stan finally strips away the plating on that one and finds that the rats chewed their way through the cables running power from the engine to the turbine. "That explains it," he says. "Wish I'd done this sooner."

"How long do you think it'll take you to fix it?" you ask.

Stan shrugs and explains, "It really all depends on if anything else comes up. If this is the only problem? We could probably have her up and running in a week."

"Something tells me we're going to find other problems, though," Koji groans.

"Hey, it would get boring if everything was straightforward, right?"

Koji rolls his eyes. "I guess so. Still, I'm starting to think that this racer might be cursed or something."

"You could still tell the owner no," you remind him.

Stan and Koji both glare at you. "We've put too much into this to turn back now," Koji says.

"We're not quitters. Are you a quitter, Molly?" Stan demands.

You roll your eyes. "No. This just seems like so much work. What's he going to do with it, anyway? Keep it in a big, fancy hangar with all his other collectable star-racers that he'll only invite people over to stare at?"

Stan sighs. "Probably. But don't you want to be able to say that you helped make this racer functional?"

Well, you can't really argue with that.

You're in the middle of helping Stan run new cables through the turbines when Koji says, "Anyone else getting hungry? It's almost dinner time."

You glance towards the hangar doors and realize that the sun is already inching towards the horizon. Your stomach grumbles a little, and you remember that the only thing you've eaten all day was some dry cereal. "I should probably eat," you agree.

"What are you in the mood for?"

"I dunno," you reply with a shrug. "I'm not picky."

"How do you feel about hot pot?" Koji asks.

"I don't even know what that is."

Koji gasps, and you can't tell if his horror is genuine or not. "We are going to fix this right now," he vows, shepherding you towards the house.

Don and Rick are sitting in the living room, and your father leaps out of his seat when Koji kicks the door open. "How has Molly never had hot pot?" he demands. "It's a _staple_!"

Rick laughs as Don blanches. "Well, we made it a few times when you were really young," he mumbles.

"We didn't have it at the boarding school," you point out. "And I don't remember too much before that. What's the big deal, anyway?"

Koji shakes his head and marches over to the kitchen and starts digging through the fridge as your father explains, "It's a big, boiling pot of broth that you cook different things in, like meats and vegetables."

"So, like soup?"

"No, not really. You put the ingredients in the broth until they're cooked, then you fish them out and eat them."

"So it's like a fondue," Rick says.

Don rolls his eyes and grumbles, "I _guess_ ," while Stan tries to hide his snort of laughter with a cough.

"Well, come on now," Koji calls from the kitchen. "The whole point of this is that we prepare it _together_."

"Uh, I like the sentiment, Koj, but I'm not sure we're all gonna fit in our kitchen," Stan says.

"Get _in_ here!"

It _is_ a tight fit. At one point, Rick hops up and sits on the counter because "I'm like three Molly's or a Don and a half," which prompts a debate about the "Wei Scale," and ends with you brandishing a ladle and yelling, "I'm _not_ that small!"

"Only someone insecure about their height would say that," Rick says. You smack his leg with the spoon hard enough to make him wince.

"Be nice!" Stan chides. "You're going to ruin the meal."

"That doesn't make any sense!" you argue.

"Yes it does! You're going to fill the space with negative energy, and it's going to make the food taste worse!"

"That's not a thing!"

"How do you know, are you a food expert?"

You put your hands on your hips and fire back, "Are _you_ a food expert?"

"Yes, I am. I have a degree in food psychology," he sniffs.

Koji laughs. "You have a degree in mechanical engineering. Food psychology isn't even a thing!"

"Uh, yeah it is, I went to the top school in the world for it, and studied with the best professors. You're doubting me?" Stan asks.

"Which school, Stan?" Rick chimes in.

"The University of Food Psychology, obviously."

"You're _impossible_ ," Koji grumbles.

Stan places a hand on his forehead and pretends to swoon. "Innovators are never understood in their time. It's the burden I must bear."

"Not to ruin everyone's day," your father says, hesitantly, "But food psychology _is_ a thing."

Stan lets out a whoop and yells, "I told you so!" as you start arguing.

"It is!" Don cries. "There are people who research the psychology of food and eating!"

"People can research anything these days!" you protest. "There are people who 'study' astrology, that doesn't make it a real science!"

Koji shrugs. "I guess food psychology makes sense, but I don't think it's related to what Stan is talking about."

"Oh yeah? I'm gonna do an experiment," Stan says. "I'll use the scientific method and publish my findings and everything."

"You're gonna write another research paper, Stan? After all the groaning you did during our undergrad?" Koji challenges.

Stan frowns. "Okay, never mind. It'll be an unofficial study."

"Besides," Koji says, "You don't have a baseline to compare it to."

"Oh no, I guess we'll just have to make more meals with everyone, what a shame," Stan drawls. "It's not like they're down here all week."

"What?" you ask, whipping around to face your dad. "We're staying here for a week?"

"Not if you don't want to," Don replies. "Rick and I just thought it would be good to get out of the house for a while."

You turn to Rick. "You were in on this too?"

"It was my idea."

"Why didn't you ask me? I mean, I probably would have said yes," you huff.

Rick shakes his head. "We _tried_ to ask you, but you were pretty out of it. So we made a judgement call."

" _Hmph_." You cross your arms and glance over at Stan and Koji, who have been watching the exchange quietly. "Well, I guess today's been good, and I was getting kind of tired of being at home and school all the time," you agree.

Koji beams. "You missed us too, right?"

You chuckle, and say, "Yeah, okay, I missed you and Stan. And working on things, even if you made me crawl into a filthy thruster."

"Hey, it was fun, right?" Stan asks.

"No! I almost got stuck!"

"You _what?_ " Don snaps. "Is _that_ what you were doing earlier?"

"Uh, I mean, it all worked out in the end, right?" you mumble.

"No harm, no fowl," Rick says, before Don can start yelling.

Your father sighs, "I suppose it all worked out in the end, and I trust Stan and Koji."

Dinner is a lively affair. The food is _really_ good, even though after a while, everything starts to all taste the same. You also drop your hotpot stick in the broth a couple of times, and Koji just shrugs and says, "It happens."

You finally sit back and place your hand on your middle. "I'm so full, if I ate another bite, I think I'd explode."

"Please don't," Rick says, "I don't think anyone wants to scrub you off the walls."

"I don't want to _be_ on the walls, I think that's the more pressing issue."

Stan shakes his head and adds, "Nah, it's definitely having to scrape you off the walls. Imagine the smell."

You pull a face. "That's disgusting," you grumble. "You're gross."

"You're the one talking about exploding."

"Do you think you could actually explode from eating too much?" you ask.

Stan rubs his chin and hums. "I don't know. I guess there's only one way to find out."

You scoop up a broccoli floret and hold it out to him. "You go first. Age before beauty."

"In that case, Don should go first," Koji teases.

"I am _not_ old!" your father yells.

"You're the oldest one here," Rick points out. "No one said you were _old_ except for you."

Don's face twists up like he licked a lemon, and you all start to laugh. As you finally start to bring your giggles under control, you look around the table at everyone, and then down at your hands.

Koji is the first to notice your silence. "You okay, Molly?" he asks.

You snap your head up and blink back the tears that were welling up in your eyes. "Ugh, sorry." You clear your throat and add, "I just, guess I realized that this is what families are _supposed_ to be, you know? Like, this is what I've been missing out on."

Stan leans across the table and asks, "Would you like a hug?"

You nod, so he and Koji get up and walk around the table to wrap you up in a bear hug. You feel someone, probably Rick, reach in and ruffle your hair, and Koji says, "Oh, just get in here already."

"Well, if I'm getting in on this, Don should too."

"I don't know," you father mumbles.

"Come on."

"Oh, alright."

The group hug lasts for a moment, before Rick mutters, "This is a weird family," and you all laugh.

"At least no one can say things will be boring," Koji replies.

"I don't think I'd want a normal family, anyway," you say. "This is definitely better."

* * *

 **AN:** So this chapter took way longer to get out than I wanted it to, and it's still not great but I think it's time to kick it out of the nest. Maybe I'll come back and rewrite it if I get a spark of inspiration. Speaking of rewriting, I've edited a couple of things in chapter 7 (probably 8 on here? Prologues mess me up and i wish there was a 0 chapter option, oh well). Nothing major, just some dialogue and details edited because, as stated, I totally forgot this was all happening over spring break, which means the gang has a whole week to hang out and bond!

The plan is to finish up this arc with the next chapter (though Stan and Koji definitely aren't going away forever!). We're nearing the one-year-after-Oban mark, which means you can look forward to some birthday shenanigans, as well as Molly finishing up her first year at her new school and then some summer break stuff.

As always, thank you for reading, and for your patience! I recently got promoted at work, which is great for my paycheck, but not great for my leisure time! Pros and cons, I guess. Until next time!


	12. Chapter 11- Home Improvement

The week flies by, but it's long enough for you to settle into a routine: wake up and help yourself to breakfast before meeting Stan and Koji out in the hangar, work on the star racer until lunch time, and then work some more until dinner. Sometimes Rick and Don stick around and help out where they can, but usually they disappear and do their own thing. "I think it's good for them," Koji says, "They've obviously got their own stuff to work through."

By the time you need to go home, the star racer is mostly done. "Just gotta make it pretty," Stan explains. "Well, there are some bugs that need to be fixed, but it's all easy stuff from here on out."

"You probably could have been done already without me slowing you down," you grumble, remembering all the times that one of them would have to show you how to do something.

"Nonsense," Koji says. "You were very helpful, Molly. Besides, we all have to start somewhere, right? It's not a big deal."

"Yeah, we like having you around." Stan swings an arm around your shoulders. "You're always welcome here."

Rick and your dad enter the hangar. "We've got the car loaded up, we're ready to leave whenever you are," Rick says.

You look down at your feet. "Yeah, okay, I guess we should go."

"If you ever need anything, you can always call us, okay?" Koji says, wrapping you up in a hug. You nod against his shoulder.

"Seriously, kid, we're here for you," Stan adds. "Anything you need from us, you just have to ask."

Two days later, you're back in school. It's hard, but you feel better about the whole thing in general. Especially since you can now ask Stan and Koji for help with your homework if you really need it, which is often, considering you still can't focus for shit.

"I don't remember doing it like that," Stan mutters, staring at the worksheet you're holding up for him to see. "Like, I know how to do this, I just don't know how to do it like _that_."

Koji has been scribbling on something out of view of the screen, and he lets out a triumphant crow and brandishes his own sheet of paper at you. "I think I got it? It's like this…"

Still, you can feel the brain-fog fighting to settle over you again. You tell Rick as much, in a fit of frustration. "I'm tired of feeling like this," you fume, scrubbing a plate with more aggression than is strictly necessary. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm fighting my own head all the time. I just want to be normal."

The first weekend after your return to school, you walk down into the living room and find Rick holding up… paint chips to the walls. You watch him for a moment, before clearing your throat and asking, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to pick out paint," he says.

You frown. "Paint for what?"

"For the living room."

You squint at him before jumping the last two stairs and approaching him. You study the walls before asking, "What's wrong with it?"

"It's boring. No wonder you Wei's are so damn depressed, I would be too if everything in my house was various shades of off-white."

You snort. "Don will kill you."

"Don has a lot of things he could kill me over, and he hasn't done it yet," Rick says. "Now, your old man is at work for most of today, so if we're doing this, let's make it happen."

"Working on a Saturday?"

Rick shrugs. "You know how he is. Do you wanna help or not?"

You look back at the wall, and feel a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Yeah, okay. Let me eat and change out of my pajamas first."

* * *

"What do you think about this blue?" Rick asks, holding up a sky-colored paint swatch he pulled out of his pocket.

You take it and study it carefully over the top of the aviators you found in Rick's truck. You're sprawled out in a shopping cart, chomping on a sucker the lady at the door gave you because she thought you were a lot younger than you actually are. Not that you're going to complain, free candy is free candy.

"I was actually thinking fuchsia," you hand the piece of paper back with a sniff. "Go big or go home."

"If you want Don to actually kill me, sure. There's also a nice yellow."

"I mean, that's not bad either," you consider the card he hands you. "What are my other options?"

"There's more neutral colors, or this darker green, but I thought a lighter color might be nice."

"Well, you're the one who's been thinking about this for longer than I have. But I agree with the lighter colors. I thought the blue was okay."

"I'm leaning towards the blue myself."

"Are we just painting the living room?" you ask.

"For now, yeah. Is there something else you wanted to paint?"

"My room?" you suggest. "It's pink."

"Says the one who wants the living room to be fuchsia."

You pull the sucker out of your mouth at point it at Rick. "Look, fuchsia is a good color, it's bold, it's obnoxious, it says, 'I have no regrets about who I am or what I look like.' But pastel pink? It's a good color but it's been that way since I was born."

"Alright, what color do you want your room to be, then?"

"Uh," you look at the gradient of colors displayed before you. "What about black?"

"No."

"It's my room!" you snap.

Rick gives you A Look. "Do you actually want your room to be black?"

"No," you grumble. "But what if we did, like, black and put glow and the dark stars all over the walls?"

"That's a lot of little plastic stars to put up everywhere, on top of being really fucking dark."

You groan. "Why do you have to be right about everything? Can't you let me live?"

He chuckles. "Why don't you get out of the cart and go look at some of your options? I'm gonna go see if I can get a little can of this blue to bring home before we commit to anything crazy."

"I thought we were just going for it, you know, no regrets, no apologies. If Dad has an issue, he can eat it."

"Look, Don might be a stick in the mud, but he can be reasonable. I think we should at least _try_ to convince him to paint the living room blue. Also, I wanna make sure this is a good shade before we buy a whole bunch of it."

You shrug. "You know him better than I do."

If you weren't looking at him, you probably would have missed the way Rick freezes at your words, before swallowing hard and seeming to regain his composure. Not that he ever really lost it. You tuck this away in your mental folder of "things you aren't sure you can ask him about" and clamber out of the cart. "I'll be looking at paint," you call.

When Rick comes to find you later, you've got a handful of chips and are considering more. "What did you find?" he asks.

You hold them out for him to take. "I don't know, I like these colors, but are they really the colors I want my room to be?"

"This orange reminds me of macaroni and cheese," he says.

"It's a nice orange, fuck off."

"And this red is very bold."

"I know, that's why I like it."

Rick huffs. "Your brain isn't going to be able to relax if your walls are bright red."

"That's fake."

"It's _psychology_."

"Oh, so you're a psychologist too, huh?"

He chuckles. "A lot of things go back to psychology."

"Okay, so what color would you suggest?" you ask.

He holds up another color you picked out. "I thought you wanted to get away from pink."

"Like, _pink_ pink. That's a reddish pink," you huff. "It's obviously different."

"What about this purple?"

You hum and take the card away from him. "I don't know. I kinda like it, but also kinda don't? It's, like, a grey-purple. It seems like an old-person bedroom color."

"An old-person bedroom."

"Yeah, like, 60 year old widow who wears cozy sweaters and goes to bingo with her friends and ends up drinking too much wine."

Rick snorts. "I get the point. You don't have to decide now. We'll have to come back to buy more paint anyway, so why don't you take some of the colors you think you'd like and think about it?"

"Because I'm impatient."

"You must learn to be patient, padawan."

You pull a face at him. "You spend all this time teaching me to go fast, now you want me to wait?"

Rick adjusts his glasses before pushing the cart away from you. "Pretty sure I was trying to teach you 'control,' and the jury's still out on if I was successful or not."

"Oh, screw you!" you cry, jogging after him. "I know control! I just decide not to use it!"

Don finds you and Rick painting sections of the living room walls. Rick said he wanted to see how the color looked "in different angles and lightings" and you just kinda went with it. You get to paint, which is fun, even if the smell is kind of giving you a headache.

"What are you doing?" your father demands.

"Painting," Rick says, nonchalantly.

Don huffs and rolls his eyes. "I can _see_ that. _Why?_ "

"Your house is boring," you chime.

"It is not! It's-" he waves a hand in a circular motion, before finishing, "It's tasteful!"

Rick says, "It's about as tasteful as plain oatmeal."

You cackle as your father splutters. Finally, he snaps, "Were you just going to paint the house without telling me?"

"Of course not, we only bought enough to see how it would look," Rick explains. "What do you think?"

Don studies the walls, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed. After a minute of this, he sighs. "It's a good color," he admits. "You have good taste, Rick."

"Woah now, Don, don't be gettin' soft on me."

"Oh, just accept the compliment, you ass."

"And he's back."

Your father groans, "I can't win with you."

"But you still try, that's gotta count for something."

The only response to that is Don clicking his tongue in disapproval.

"So, we _can_ paint the living room?" you ask.

"Yes, fine, we can paint the living room," your dad sighs. "Any other changes I should know about?"

"Molly wanted to paint her room, too," Rick says.

Your father raises an eyebrow at you and asks, "What's wrong with how it is now?" You almost think he sounds hurt.

"I mean, it's fine," you mumble. "I just thought it was time for a change. But I can't decide on a color anyway, so it's probably just gonna stay the way it is."

"You have four walls, you could pick a couple different colors," Rick suggests.

You hum as you think, and then grin. "What if I did _four_ different colors?"

"Absolutely not," Don blurts.

"Why not? It's my room!"

Rick shrugs. "She's got a point. Little creativity never hurt anyone."

The other man sighs, that way he does when he knows he can't win. "Can they at least be complimentary colors?" he asks.

"We'll see," you reply, because you still aren't really sure which colors you want still, but you are by no means making any promises one way or the other.


	13. Chapter 12- Sweet Sixteen

Over the next few days, the living room slowly transforms from off-white to pale blue. You help when you can, of course, but your priorities are the ever-growing pile of school assignments you're struggling to keep on top of. You sit at the kitchen table and listen to Rick and your father squabble like an old married couple, and then realize that you've made that connection and try very hard to _not_ think about that. Your dad and Rick _aren't_ like that. They just have a very close relationship from working together. At least, you _think_ they do.

As for your own room, you settled on three different colors: red, teal, and orange. You keep one wall pink, for sentimental reasons, and also because you really do like pink. Don isn't terribly enthusiastic about each wall being a different color, but relents when Rick says, "It's just a room."

You don't realize that it's April until your father asks you what you would like to do for your birthday.

"Uh, I don't know," is your eloquent response.

"It doesn't have to be anything big," he scrambles to add. "It's just, well, it is the first time we'll be celebrating together in… a while. We can do anything you want."

"Sweet sixteen, Mouse," Rick comments from where he's peeling painter's tape off the white trim. "Live it up."

"What did you do for your sixteenth birthdays?" you ask.

"Absolutely nothing," Rick says.

Don scratches his head, before replying, "I don't think it was anything over the top, we didn't have the money for that."

"What would we even do? It's not like I have a lot of friends," you say with a shrug. "It would probably just be us."

"There isn't anyone from school that you'd want to invite?" Your father's brow furrows in concern.

"I mean, _maybe_ , but I feel weird inviting them over and expecting them to bring me gifts when they hardly know me."

"Wanna invite Stan and Koji?" Rick suggests.

You nod. "Yeah, okay, us, and Stan and Koji. And I guess I don't want to do anything too big, maybe just eat a lot of cake and ice cream."

"That's all you want to do?" your father asks. "Are there any presents you want?"

You lean back in your chair and frown at the table. "I mean, I don't really _need_ anything."

"If you wanted, we could get you some parts so you could start making things," Don offers. "You seemed to enjoy helping Stan and Koji out with that star racer."

"Oh, that might be nice. I guess I don't have any specific projects in mind right now, but maybe getting some stuff will provide some inspiration, or something."

Your father nods, apparently satisfied with your responses. "It shouldn't be too hard to get you some parts. I'll see what I can do."

Your birthday falls on a Friday, and Stan and Koji agreed to come up on Saturday for sure. "We've got a meeting with a client Friday afternoon, so we'll probably leave early Saturday to make it up by mid-morning," Koji says, when he calls to let you know he and Stan can make it. "Would you like us to bring anything?"

"You don't have to," you blurt. "It's fine, really."

Koji gives you a look over the top of his glasses and says, "We're definitely bringing something, this is just your chance to have a say in it."

"Ugh, fine. Rick's making dumplings and Dad said he was going to get some fancy cake from some fancy bakery he and Mom used to get cakes from, so dinner and desert's all taken care of."

He nods. "We'll bring something to go with dinner, then. Any gift ideas? We already have some, but if there was anything in particular that you wanted…"

You throw your hands over your head and huff. "I literally don't want anything, but since you all keep _insisting_ on getting me things, how about some welding tools?"

"A blow torch is always a good time!" Stan cries from off screen, prompting Koji to roll his eyes.

"Working on anything right now?" he asks you.

"Not really, but I've kind of been toying with the idea of making another rocket seat. It would be nice to have a way to get around without relying on Dad or Rick. And I have a lot of tools from Christmas, but not anything for welding, which I'll definitely need at some point."

Koji makes an affirmative noise. "We'll see what we can find. Feel free to call if you think of anything else, okay?"

You shake your head and sigh. "You really don't have to bring anything but yourselves, okay? Like, knowing Rick and my dad, there will be more than enough food for all of us, and I really don't need any gifts, so don't worry about it that much."

Though, lying in bed that night, you wonder if you should be telling _yourself_ not to worry so much. As your father already pointed out, this is the first time in eleven years that you're together for your birthday. The desire to do something special is there, but you're still used to your birthday coming and going with little notice. Perhaps, you think, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars you insisted on putting up all over your ceiling, you're afraid of expecting the day to be something completely extraordinary and having it turn out to be just another day.

But, because it's _you,_ it can't be just another day.

The Wednesday before, you overhear your father having a rather frantic conversation. At least, the half that you can make out is frantic. You didn't even realize your father _spoke_ a language other than English, but looking back on it now, you do have foggy memories of your parents teaching you their native languages. From the sound of it, your father's gotten rusty, and he keeps having to ask whomever he's speaking with to repeat what they said.

"I, no, I haven't told her," he says, and winces and pulls the phone away from his ear when the person on the other side starts shouting. "It never came up!" he argues, and then says something you don't catch.

"Eavesdropping again, huh?" Rick asks, and you jump.

"I could say the same to you," you hiss. "Don't scare me like that, or I'll hit you."

"You'd break your hand- _hey_ ," he grumbles when you swat at his arm. "Come on, before he notices us."

"Who's he even talking to?" you ask as he leads you towards the living room. "What language was he speaking?"

"No clue," Rick says. "Don didn't share too much about his past with me, believe it or not."

"Huh." You place your hands on your hips and stare back down the hall towards his office. "Think he'll tell us about it?"

Rick just shrugs. He doesn't seem too concerned about any of it, which you guess you should have expected. He _is_ Rick, after all.

When your father walks out of the office and sees the two of you waiting for him, he freezes. "Is something wrong?" he asks.

"Who was on the phone?" you demand.

He frowns. "We really need to do something about your eavesdropping."

"You're avoiding the question."

Don rubs his temples and sighs theatrically. "It was my in-laws."

You open and shut your mouth a couple of times, before Rick says what you're thinking. "You mean Molly's grandparents."

"I— yes, I suppose I do."

"I have grandparents," you mumble. Well, _duh_ , of _course_ you have grandparents. Your parents also had parents, after all. You just never thought… "Why haven't I met them yet?"

Your dad shuffles his feet and pulls at the collar of his shirt. "Well, you _have_ , it's just been a while."

"You know what I mean," you growl.

"It hasn't been that long since we got back from Oban, we just haven't had time yet."

You cry, "It's almost been a year!"

"A year that you spent—!" He stops himself, takes a deep breath, and continues, "You've been going through a lot. I didn't want to overwhelm you more."

You remember your dad sharply pulling the phone away from his ear and scowl. "You didn't want to deal with them because you know they're mad at you and your stupid life choices."

" _Eva_!" he snaps.

"It's true!" you yell. "You made terrible decisions and Mom's parents are mad as hell about it, aren't they?"

"Alright, yes, you're right! Are you happy?"

"NO!" you roar, loud enough that you hear your voice echo off the walls.

Before Don can say anything else, Rick says, "Knock it off," and it isn't louder than if you were having a quiet conversation with him, but the force of it makes both you and your father pause. "Yelling at each other isn't gonna do any good. You both need to calm down before you continue this conversation."

You glare at your father, and then at Rick, before stomping up the stairs to your bedroom. You hear Don try to say something, but the other man cuts him off, and you don't care enough to stick around to listen. You slam the door behind you for good measure.

It seems like forever before you hear a knock on your door, and in that time, you have torn all the clothes out of your closet and thrown them about the room, scribbled angrily in a notebook, felt guilty and stupid about throwing your clothes about the room, and started to put them away. You're sorely tempted to ignore whoever it is, but then Rick says, "It's just me."

"I don't know a 'just me,' sorry," you shoot back, and you hear a snort.

"You're too clever for your own good, kid; it's gonna bite you in the ass one day."

You unlock the door and yank it open. "What do you want?" you demand.

Rick's holding a plate of cookies. "I just baked them. You want any?"

"What's the catch?"

"Just wanna talk."

You look between him and the cookies, searching for any sign of… well, _anything_. But Rick's face is as impassive as ever, and you say, "Take your dumb sunglasses off."

"Sorry Mouse, no can do."

"Why the hell not?"

"Ever seen X-Men?"

"You are _not_ Scott Summers."

He raises an eyebrow. "How do you know? I could take my shades off and vaporize you where you stand."

"That's not a thing!" you argue.

"You ever met anyone who's seen me without my sunglasses?"

"Ugh, whatever, just get in here already."

He chuckles as he slips past you, sauntering over to your desk and throwing himself down into your chair. You lean back against the door and cross your arms over your chest. "Okay, talk."

"Eat a cookie, first," he says, holding the plate out to you.

"I don't want a cookie."

He sets the plate down on your desk and takes a cookie off the top of the pile. "They're still warm." He breaks it in half, and adds, "Gooey on the inside, just the way you like them." He takes a bite and hums. "Damn, I really outdid myself this time."

"Oh my _God_ ," you growl, stomping over and snatching a cookie off the plate. You shove the whole thing in your mouth, hissing when it's hotter than you expected. "Happy?" you snap, your mouth still full.

He leans back in the chair and swings an ankle up over his knee. "You're not. What's up?"

"Are you seriously asking me this? You were there. You saw what happened."

"I saw, yeah, but I can't read minds."

"Sometimes I wonder," you grumble. "He lied to me."

"About?"

"My grandparents!" you cry. "He kept them from me!"

"Did he?"

You fist your hands in your hair and exhale forcefully through your nose. "Well, he certainly didn't tell me about them! Seems like he was trying to hide something to me!"

He holds out the plate of cookies to you again, and you glare at him before grabbing another one. This time, you angrily take a bite out of it and pace around the room. "All his talk of wanting to be a family again, and he just _conveniently_ forgets to tell me about ours? How many relatives do I have that he hasn't told me about? And more importantly, why didn't they _do_ anything after Mom—" your voice catches, and you swallow hard before pushing onward. "After the accident? Didn't anyone try to do anything? Wasn't anyone _worried_ about me? Didn't anyone _care_?"

Rick sighs. "I don't know, Molly. He never talked to me. I didn't know he _had_ a family until Alwas."

"And what would you have done if he'd said something sooner, huh? Would you have told him to come back for me? Or would you have gone along with it like everyone else did?" And you _know_ it isn't fair to ask him that, but you're angry and bitter and hurt.

"I don't know," he says with a one-shouldered shrug, and it stops you in your tracks. "I've changed a lot since I met Don. I can't say what younger me would have done."

You drop onto your bed, the springs groaning under your weight, and stare into the space between the two of you. "Why are you always so patient and honest with me?" you ask. "I'm so used to adults just. Not _caring_. And after everything that happened, I don't understand why you don't _hate_ me." You finally force yourself to make eye contact with him (as best as you can through the dark lenses, at least) and say, "Why do you care so much?"

You don't really expect an answer, because truth be told, you're not sure he owes it to you. So you're so surprised when he pushes his sunglasses up so he can massage the bridge of his nose and says, "That's a lot to unpack, kid," that you don't immediately realize that _Rick frickin' Tunderbolt's sunglasses are off_.

"Don't vaporize me for it," you blurt.

He laughs, freely, and you feel the stress bleed out of you, enough for your shoulders to relax a bit and the knot in your stomach to loosen. He rests an elbow on your desk and props his head up on it. His sunglasses remain perched atop his head. "I won't, promise."

You shift nervously on your bed. "You don't have to answer; I guess I was just ranting, or something."

"I know," he says. "But I think you deserve to hear it. And maybe talking through it will help both of us. Just, give me a moment to figure out where to begin." After a few minutes of him mulling things over, he begins, "So, here's the deal, full disclosure, and I might come to regret this, but I think you gotta know. I… was jealous of you on Alwas. After the accident. Racing was my _life_ , and for you to come in and take my place? It was hard. And honestly, that was part of why I left, before y'all went to Oban. But I also…" he trails off, and you realize you've been staring at his face, at the pain and loss and something else you can't quite place warring in his eyes, and trying to not be completely floored by just how _expressive_ Rick is without his sunglasses. How could you ever think the guy was emotionless? "I saw a lot of myself in you, when I was your age. I remember being lost, and feeling like I didn't belong anywhere I went, not feeling like I had adults I could turn to for help. I guess I saw you as a chance to be the role model I never had. Maybe that's selfish of me," he snorts. "But if I wasn't gonna do it, who would? Don?"

You roll your eyes. "Fat chance," you mutter.

"Exactly." He flashes you a bitter smile. "But you know what? Don's got a lot of regrets, he's done a lot of shit he isn't proud of, but I know he's trying. He really does want to do right by you, and it's your business if you forgive him or not, but I wouldn't give up on him just yet."

"He's got a lot to prove, then."

"I know that. But can I make a suggestion?"

"If you tell me to eat another cookie, I'm gonna throw it at you."

He snorts. "I think you should go talk to him."

"I had a feeling you were gonna say that," you groan.

The living room might as well be a completely different space from when you first returned to Earth. On top of the new paint, Rick picked out a couple of lamps that fill the space with a soft, warm glow. You father sits in the armchair, nursing a cup of tea, a thick book open on his lap. You stand at the bottom of the staircase, Rick somewhere behind you, and clear your throat, causing Don to jump slightly.

"Sorry I yelled," you mumble, shuffling your feet.

His expression softens, and he shakes his head. "No, you were right. I haven't been honest with you. I apologize."

You walk over to the sofa and perch carefully on the edge of it. Rick walks into the kitchen, and you hear him digging around in a cabinet or something as your father holds the book out to you. You can see now that it's a photo album. "From when Maya and I started dating," he explains. "There's some pictures of our parents in there, as well."

You swallow hard and gingerly open it to the first page. The first picture is a young Don, standing in his graduation robes and mortarboard with an older, stern-faced man and a woman about the same age, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. No one looks particularly happy to be there. You tell him that.

"My parents were firm believers of the 'tough love' approach. They also weren't pleased that the management I was going into was for racing, instead of business, like I'd led them to believe," he explains.

"You lied to your parents?" you ask.

"Well…" Your father scratches his head and sighs. " I wouldn't call it _lying_ , it was more… not telling the whole truth."

You look up at him and frown. "Isn't that what I did, though? And you were pissed."

Rick finally comes back into the living room with two mugs. He hands one to you and settles onto the other side of the couch with his own. You glance down long enough to determine that it's just tea before looking at the other picture. Your mother sits between two older women on a park bench. Their arms are wrapped around each other's shoulders, and all of them are smiling brightly. "Who're they?" you ask, pointing at the two women you don't recognize.

"Those are Maya's mothers."

"Mothers," you repeat.

"Yes, mothers. They called earlier."

You hum, and study the photograph. "Where are they now?"

"In China still. They saved up enough for Maya to come here. I think they always intended to join her eventually, but things never really worked out."

"What about your parents?"

"My father passed before you were born, my mother a few years after. There's a picture of her holding you somewhere in the attic."

"I see." You flip the page, and find a picture of your parents. Your mother seems to be holding the camera, and your father is glaring up at it while Maya makes bunny ears behind his head. You giggle. "She looks so happy."

Don smiles. "She was, always. That's part of why I loved her so much."

"Do I have any other family? Any aunts or uncles?"

"Both your mother and I were only children, so no aunts or uncles. I have an aunt, who last I heard was still living, but I haven't talked to her in years."

You nod, and say, "I wanna talk to Mom's moms."

"I figured you would," your father says with a sigh. "Can it wait until tomorrow after school? They're both probably at work now."

"As long as I do get to talk to them, and this isn't you trying to push it off."

He huffs. "Yes, I will let you talk to them. Just not right this minute."

"Fair enough."

Thursday evening finds you holed up in your father's office, clutching the photo from the first page of the album your father showed you last night in one hand and holding the phone up to your ear with the other. You don't know what these women look like now, how time has changed them, but it helps to have some sort of reference of whom you're speaking to. The first few minutes of the call, you all sat in silence, unsure of what to say. You were the first to speak. "What was Mom like?"

Then, you can't get them to be quiet, but that's okay. They pick up where the other left off, finishing each other's stories, adding to them with forgotten details, arguing about whether it happened like that or not. "Very clever, our Maya," Bai says. You're not sure which one she is in the picture, but her voice is a little lower than her wife's. "Average when it came to school, but very resourceful, very bright."

"Remember when she snuck out to see that race?" the other, Yawen, asks. "Said she was with some newspaper and was reporting on the race. Went down into all the pits to ask the racers questions and wrote it all down."

"Didn't they catch her?" you ask.

"You'd think they would! But no one said anything." She sighs.

"Enough about that, tell us about you! It has been, ah, a long time since we've seen you," Bai says.

"You're all grown up!" Yawen chirps. "Tell us everything!"

So you tell them about Stern, and building the rocket seat. They seem pleased that you've taken an interest in racing as well. "Racing is in our blood," Bai remarks. "My husband was very interested in it."

"You had a husband?" you ask.

Bai laughs, and says, "Of course, Yawen and I couldn't have a child together!" But she stops herself, and amends, "It would have been better if we could. He left shortly after Maya was born."

Yawen mutters something under her breath, and Bai snorts and replies in kind. They chuckle among themselves until they seem to remember that you're still listening. "How did you find Don again?"

"I ran away from school on my birthday," you explain, knowing that this is when you're going to have to start tweaking the story, and remembering what you tell them. You and your father should really come up with something to tell people so you're both on the same page. "I went to Wei Racing and found him."

"And that was that?" Yawen asks, disbelief clearly present in her tone. "Ten years and he takes you back?"

"Well, he didn't recognize me at first. It took some convincing," you mumble. "And I'm still mad at him, about everything, but we're working on it, I guess."

Bai exhales heavily. "We tried to be there for you," she murmurs. "All the _paperwork_."

"Things kept falling through, and I think Don was tired of waiting. Impatient bastard." Yawen sounds unamused.

"He was hurting," Bai chides. "We all were. I don't think he knew what to do with himself."

"We couldn't get through, he wouldn't answer the phone."

"Then he shows up years later with some new hot shot, what was his name?" Bai hums as she thinks. "Dick?"

You laugh. "Rick?"

"Maybe? I don't know, big guy, lots of hair."

"That's Rick. He's still around," you say. "He's been, uh, helpful. He's taught me a lot about racing."

"Yeah, well, he could have shown Don how to pick up a phone."

"Don probably didn't tell him anything. Did he?" Yawen asks.

"Uh, no, not really," you mumble.

"Knew it," Yawen mutters. "Ass."

"Ass," Bai agrees. "But, he's family, and that's that."

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. "So, even after everything, you forgive him?"

"It's less forgive and more, sympathize. We understand his pain, and why he did what he did, even if we don't agree with it. He obviously was not able to take care of you, and you needed to be somewhere else."

"We just wish he'd waited a little longer," Yawen explains. "Or reached out to us sooner."

An alarm beeps somewhere on their end, and Bai sighs. "That's our cue," she says. "We want to talk again, Eva."

"We want to visit you," Yawen adds.

You sit up a little straighter. "Like, come here?"

"Yes, of course! It's been too long since we've seen you."

"It might be a while longer, but yes, we are planning on coming," Bai says. "With gifts! Your birthday is tomorrow, yes?"

"Happy birthday!" Yawen chimes. "We wish we could be there in person, but we didn't realize…"

"It's okay," you assure them. "Really. I didn't even know you two existed, so."

Someone grunts, probably Yawen, because it's followed by another, "Ass."

Bai shushes her. "We will plan on visiting this summer, okay? No school for you, so we won't be interrupting too much. For now, we'll send you something in the mail, okay? Some pictures maybe."

"I, yeah, I'd like that, thank you," you murmur.

"And send us pictures of you! We want to see what our granddaughter looks like, yes?"

You chuckle. "Yeah, okay.

"Bye-bye! We love you!" Yawen says. "Call us whenever!"

"Talk to you later!" Bai adds, before they end the call.

You remain curled up on your father's desk chair, staring at the old photo and dabbing at your eyes, until you feel confident that you can keep your cool long enough to get up to your bedroom.

Saturday morning, you wake up fairly early and don't know why. For once, your sleep was blissfully free of nightmares. In fact, you don't remember what your dreams, just a feeling of warmth. Still, your body refuses to let you fall back asleep, so around 7:30 you finally pull yourself out of bed and into the shower.

You agreed that, rather than go all out two days in a row, you'd do all the birthday stuff on Saturday. That's not to say that Don and Rick didn't do anything special on Friday. Rick didn't say anything when you shoveled your sugary cereal into your mouth before school, and he surprised you by sneaking extra treats into your lunch. Your father left work early to pick you up from school, and took you to that new ice cream place you've been wanting to go to. So, all in all, your actual birthday was still pretty good.

When you walk into the kitchen, there's a pile of pancakes topped with strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. Rick sits with his feet propped up on another chair (his and your father's compromise instead of putting them on the table) while your father drinks his coffee and reads the paper. "What happened to healthy breakfasts?" you ask, nudging Rick playfully as you walk past to get to your seat.

"It's got fruit," he grunts. "Good enough."

You snort and start to dig in, but your father makes a pained noise.

"What's wrong?" you gasp.

Rick laughs. "You didn't admire his rabbit."

"His w _hat?_ "

"Look!" Don cries, pointing at the pancake on the top of the pile.

You frown and study it. "Are the strawberries supposed to be the ears?"

"And I made a face with chocolate syrup! It looked a lot prettier when I first made it, it kind of ran while you were in the bathroom."

"Am I supposed to do anything with it?" you ask.

Your father sighs. "No, I guess not. I just, tried to be 'relevant,' or whatever it is the kids these days are doing."

"Oh boy," Rick snorts. "Don, please, your age is showing."

"I'm not old!" he yells.

"You're a little old," you add, which makes Rick chuckle and your father wail in despair.

"Just eat the pancake already, I give up!"

You pat him on the arm. "Thanks, Dad. You get an A for effort."

"What's his grade for relevancy?" Rick asks.

"Uh, a C. He lost points for saying he was trying to be relevant."

Don groans and goes back to reading the paper.

Stan and Koji arrive a couple hours after breakfast. Stan nearly drops the bags in his arms in his hurry to hug you, and Koji sighs heavily, but follows his lead after setting everything down neatly and slipping his shoes off.

"You'd think you'd get a little taller with age," Stan remarks, and you huff and shove him away while he laughs.

"Maybe we should have gotten you some stilts," Koji teases.

You groan. "Okay, you can both leave now."

They both laugh, until you relent and join them. "I'm glad you're here," you say.

Stan grins. "We're glad we were able to make it."

Lunch is a lively affair. The dumplings Rick made are amazing, and you eat far too much while you chat about star racers with Stan and Koji. Your father proves to be more knowledgeable about them than you expected him to be. "I might not know the first thing about _fixing_ them, but I know what I want in one," he sniffs.

"Should have figured it was just you being a snob again," Rick drawls, which sets off an argument between the two of them while you, Stan, and Koji sit back and watch.

You decide to open your gifts before cake, because you are far too full to even think about eating more at the moment, and also you're curious. Stan and Koji _did_ get you some welding tools, and the safety equipment to go with them, so Don can't complain too much about it. "It could be worse," Stan points out with a shrug. "We could have gotten her a puppy."

"A puppy won't burn the house down," Don grumbles.

"But it _will_ pee on the carpet, usually where you walk the most.

You turn to your dad and say, "I want a puppy now."

"No dogs," he replies, matter-of-fact. "You can get one when you move out."

"You're no fun." You reach for a small box and start to tear the paper off. "Why is there a blindfold?" you demand. "Did you get me a piñata?"

"No, but you should put it on and go out to the garage," Rick says.

"Well, that doesn't sound weird at all," you mutter, but do as he says. "Please don't make me run into anything."

They all walk with you out to the garage, and your father tells you to take off the blindfold. You gasp when you see the new worktables, and the bins filled with parts. "How did this all get here without me knowing?" you demand.

"Because it happened when you were at school," Don says smugly. "What do you think?"

You dig through one of the bins and find rolls of wires. Another has fasteners. "I didn't think you were gonna go all out like this," you reply. "I didn't mean for you to put so much work into it."

Your father approaches, and stands beside you at the worktable. "Well, I did miss 11 birthdays, and I know this doesn't make up for that, but I wanted this to be special."

You nod, and realize that you don't really have anything else to say, but you think he understands that. He squeezes your shoulder gently, and you offer him a small smile. "Shall we go eat some cake?" he asks.

"Yeah, okay." But before he can turn around to go back into the house, you give him a hug, and you feel his hands flutter, unsure of where to go, until he rests them on your back and sighs. "Thanks, Dad," you whisper. "I mean it."

* * *

 **AN:** So this chapter was a lot longer than I planned on it being. A lot of stuff happened! A lot of stuff I didn't plan on happening happened! The stuff I wanted to happen didn't all happen! So, we'll see what that means for the future.

Anyway. According to the art book, Molly was born some time in May, but I'm too committed to my headcanon of her birthday being April 9 to care, so just add that to the pile of canon that I'm ignoring/tweaking. So, happy birthday Molly! I wanted this chapter to be posted on Sunday but, as stated, it turned out a lot longer than I thought, and I only just finished it. I'm sure I'll find typos I missed or things I could have done better but I don't care too much right now.

A personal update: This fic is kind of causing me a lot of anxiety, because I feel like I need to be working on it whenever I'm not at work. I am working almost 40 hours a week, so when I am not working, I am very tired, and do not want to write/am not motivated to write. I'm going to ride this wave of motivation for as long as I can, but I would not expect regular updates, and I've been considering a hiatus so I can try to build up a buffer again. Of course, I've also been considering straight-up abandoning it for a myriad of reasons, so we'll see what happens, I guess.

As always, thanks for reading. Until next time.


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